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BOBBY 


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AUTHOR OF 

“courtin’ CHRISTINA,” “jIM,” “ WEE MACGREEGOR,” 

“oh! Christina!” etc. 



HODDER & STOUGHTON 
NEW YORK 

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


B6 


Copyright, 1914, 

By George H. Doran Company 



MAY 261914 *T^ 

©Ci,A3760(i4 

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TO JIM 


I 







CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 


I 

BANANAS - - - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

II 

II 

“ ’specially peeshka” 

- 

- 

- 

- 

21 

III 

TAPIOCA - - - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

39 

IV 

A PRESENT FOR BOBBY 

- 

- 

- 

- 

56 

V 

“don’t sniff! 

- 

- 

- 

- 

76 

VI 

BOBBY REDEEMS HIMSELF 

- 

- 

- 

- 

89 

VII 

THE JOY OF THE MOMENT 

- 

- 

- 

- 

107 

vni 

REFRESHING FRUITS - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

118 

IX 

THE HYMN- 

- 

- 

- 

- 

131 

X 

“S WANG A jew” - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

141 

XI 

SISTERS - - - 

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- 

- 

- 

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CHAPTER ONE 


BANANAS 


"‘I WANT a beenahna,’’ the little boy announced 
for at least the fourteenth time since the beginning 
of breakfast. 

‘‘Come, Bobby dear, take your nice porridge,’^ 
his mother said, patiently. 

“I want a ” 

“But you can’t have a banana. There aren’t 
any bananas.” 

“Get some.” 

“I’ll see if I can’t get you something awfully nice 
after you have eaten your porridge. Come now! — 
here is a spoonful for pussy ” 

“You can give it all to pussy. I want a 
beenahna.” 

“Then you must just want it!” Young Mrs. 
Jack Burton spoke with unwonted asperity. She 
had scarce closed her eyes throughout the sultry 
summer night owing to Bobby’s restlessness. 

With her husband and son she was paying a visit 
to her parents in their country cottage. All had 
gone fairly well until the advent of the present heat 
wave. 


II 


12 


Bobby 


want a beenahna,” said Bobby once more. 

His grandfather essayed to change the subject by 
imitating the drawing of a stiff cork ; his Aunt Hilda 
made pleasing faces across the table, and emitted 
sounds remotely reminiscent of a farmyard; 
and his grandmother, setting down the teapot a 
trifle less carefully than usual, said to her married 
daughter : 

‘‘I think you might have told us, Ethel, that the 
boy was so fond of bananas. Although we happen 
to dislike them, it would have been a very simple 
matter to have ordered a bunch for him.’’ 

“I wasn’t aware myself that Bobby was so pas- 
sionately fond of bananas,” Mrs. Burton returned 
wearily. ‘The last time I had them in the house 
he would not touch them. I can’t think what can 
have put bananas into his head. . . . Now, Bobby, 
snap up your porridge, like a good boy. You’ll 
never be big and strong like daddy if you don’t.” 

“Where’s daddy?” 

“Daddy went to town in the early train ” 

“To get beenahnas?” 

“We’ll see when he comes home, dearie.” 

“I want a beenahna.” 

Old Mr. Bernard drew three imaginary corks in 
rapid succession without, however, receiving the 
slightest attention for his pains. 

“Don’t force the child to eat porridge on a hot 


Bananas 


13 


morning like this,” said Mrs. Bernard to her 
daughter; and to Bobby: “Would granny’s little 
boy like a nice piece of toast and jelly?” 

“I want a beenahna.” 

Mr. Bernard threw his napkin over his head and 
pretended he was a duck. But Bobby was in no 
humour for ducks. 

“Would auntie’s darling boy like a bit of auntie’s 
egg?” Miss Bernard accompanied her inquiry with 
a winning smile. 

“It’s too soft,” Bobby replied. “Make me sick. 
I want a beenahna.” 

“Once and for all, Bobby,” the tired mother said 
desperately, “you cannot have a banana.” 

The little boy lifted his spoon and slapped the 
porridge so that the milk flew far and wide. He 
then flung the spoon on the floor, and broke out 
in dismal wailing. 

“I’m sure there is no need for being so cross 
with the child, Ethel,” observed Mrs. Bernard. 
“He is bound to be a little irritable with the 
heat.” 

“I wasn’t cross,” retorted her daughter. “Bobby 
must learn that he can’t have absolutely everything 
he asks for. It’s too bad of you to encourage him 
to expect it. I’m pretty sure you didn’t pamper 
your own children when they were his age. In 
fact, I know very well you didn’t. I had to take 


14 Bobby 

my porridge whether I liked it or not, and as for 
bananas, or anything else, you would have 

“Oh, goodness, Ethel !” her sister exclaimed, 
“don’t be jealous of your own child.” 

Poor Mrs. Burton muttered an angry rejoinder 
and could not help the tears coming to her eyes. 

“It’s difficult enough to manage Bobby,” she 
said presently, “without you all encouraging him 
to be disobedient. . . . Now, Bobby dear, take your 
porridge — just a little of it — ^to please mother.” 

“I want a bee ” 

“Drink your nice milk, then.” 

“I want a beenahna.” 

“Oh, dear! Haven’t I told you ” 

Mr. Bernard rose, having made but a poor break- 
fast. 

“Will you come for a walk with me in the gar- 
den?” he asked kindly, 
want a ” 

“/ know what Bobby wants to do,” put in Miss 
Bernard. “He wants to come to the village with 
his Aunt Hilda.” 

“I think the boy ought to be kept quiet in the 
meantime,” Mrs. Bernard said firmly. “Bobby 
would like to sit on his granny’s knee and hear a 
pretty story — wouldn’t he ?” 

“Well, Bobby,” said his mother, with an effort 
at cheerfulness, “what would you like best?” 


Bananas 15 

‘‘A beenahna/’ Bobby answered, and wailed 
anew. 

His grandfather sighed and left the room. 

“You must have patience with the child, Ethel,’’ 
said Mrs. Bernard. 

“Of course,” added her unmarried daughter. 

“I’ve been having patience since seven o’clock 
last night.” The young mother’s tone suggested 
exasperation. “It’s very easy,” she continued 
resentfully, “for you good people to talk of patience, 
after sleeping like logs for about ten hours. . . . 
Do be quiet, Bobby !” 

“I want a beenah ” 

“No wonder he cries when you speak to him like 
that,” said Miss Bernard. “Poor little man, come 
to your Auntie ” 

“If you think you can manage him better than 
me, Hilda ” began Mrs. Burton. 

“I’d certainly not try to irritate him,” retorted 
her sister. 

“Hush, my dears,” Mrs. Bernard mildly inter- 
posed. 

Mrs. Burton took no notice. 

“Irritate him !” she exclaimed. “His present 
irritation is largely due to the things you insisted 
on giving him to eat yesterday. I’m sure I begged 
you and mother not to let him have so many rich 
things, but ” 


i6 Bobby 

‘‘Oh! nonsense!’' said Hilda. “You seem to 
think a mother’s chief duty is to interfere with a 
child’s enjoyment.” 

“My dears!” protested the old lady. 

Mrs. Burton rose. 

“If you don’t mind, mother,” she said, restraining 
her temper, “I’ll take Bobby to the parlour. It’s 
cooler there than out of doors. He can play with 
his toys there, and perhaps he’ll take a nap soon. 
I’m sure he didn’t sleep for ten minutes at a time 
last night. I think I might give him some mag- 
nesia.” 

“It wouldn’t do him any harm, dear,” Mrs. 
Bernard returned. “But might not I look after 
him while you get a little rest?” 

Bobby, however, wanted his mother as well as 
a banana, and presently she accompanied him from 
the room. 

“I think Ethel is far too hard on Bobby,” Miss 
Bernard remarked when they had gone. 

“I think it would be splendid if we could get some 
bananas for the boy,” said the old lady. “What 
a pity we told the fruit cart from Kennaway not to 
call. Its bananas may be good, although its other 
fruit was so inferior.” 

“Perhaps they might have some in the village,” 
said Miss Bernard. “I’ll go and see.” 

“Do,” said the grandmother cordially. 


Bananas 


17 


The maid arrived to clear the table, and through 
the open door came also the too familiar words : 

‘T want a beenahna!” 

♦ * 

The next four hours passed unhappily for the 
household. Bobby, though apparently well enough 
in health, was in the worst of tempers. As the 
old-fashioned expression has it, he would ^'neither 
dance nor hold the candle.” Grandmother, grand- 
father, aunt and mother did their utmost, separ- 
ately and collectively, to entertain him, but never 
succeeded in doing so for more than three minutes 
at a time. 

Through all their remarks rose, intermittently, 
‘T want a beenahna.” His aunt’s expedition to 
the village had been indeed fruitless; and although 
the shopkeeper who stocked wares of the most 
varied description thought he might, by the re- 
motest chance, receive a consignment of bananas 
some time during the afternoon, her order for a 
dozen had been given without any hope whatsoever. 

By one o’clock everyone was reduced to a state of 
nervous irritability, which, however, they blamed 
exclusively on the ‘‘dreadful heat.” It was not 
until after luncheon, at which Bobby, present at 
his grandmother’s kindly urgent demand, behaved 
as badly as it is possible for a little boy to behave. 


i8 Bobby 

that relief came to all, including the disturber of 
the peace. 

With hardly any warning Bobby dropped off to 
sleep on his mother’s shoulder, his last words being : 

“I want a beenahna.” 

An hour afterwards Mr. Bernard, despite the 
blazing sun and the protest of his relatives, declared 
his intention of going for a ride, and departed on 
his tricycle. Mrs. Bernard, now anxious for two 
of her dear ones, could not settle to her customary 
nap, and sought to pass the afternoon in the garden 
with a sunshade and a book. Hilda sat in her 
bedroom, with the door open, listening lest the 
boy should waken. Mrs. Burton, leaving the garden 
by a back way, stole down to the village, and on her 
return made a vain attempt at sleeping on the 
drawing-room sofa. The separation of these four 
members of the household must not be taken to 
mean that they had quarrelled. It would, perhaps, 
be too much to say that their four hearts ‘Teat as 
one,” yet it is highly probable that'' their minds 
were filled “with but a single thought.” 

^ 

Bobby slept till near five o’clock, and awoke 
refreshed if still a little short in his temper. His 
mother was ready to lift him from his crib, and she 
was surprised that his first words were not in 


Bananas 


reference to bananas. As a matter of fact, he asked 
for his daddy, who at that moment was climbing 
the hill to the house. 

A few minutes later, having dressed him, she took 
him downstairs. And there in the hall was his daddy. 
And in the garden was his granny, coming slowly 
towards the house, a happy smile upon her fine old 
face and traces of slumber in her eyes. At a little 
distance, toiling up the hill with his tricycle, heated 
and dusty, was his grandfather. And from upstairs 
Miss Bernard cried gaily : ‘‘Is Auntie Hilda’s dar- 
ling boy all right again ?” 

Mrs. Burton stole close to her husband and 
whispered : “Jack, don’t mention the wire to any- 
body.” 

He laughed. “Very well, Ethel. But I saw 
some splendid strawberries this morning — awfully 
cheap — and meant to bring you a lot; only your 
wire made me forget all about strawberries. Hard 
lines, eh?” 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” she replied cheerfully, 
“since you have brought what I wanted so badly. 
Thank you, dear.” 

“Well, that’s all right,” said Mr. Burton. “See 
you later. Must have a wash now. Enjoy yourself, 
Bobby, old man, but don’t overeat.” 

Mother and son went forth to meet the grand- 
mother. Almost immediately they were joined by 


20 Bobby 

the grandfather and the aunt. The four grown-ups 
wore bright smiles and looked quizzingly yet lov- 
ingly at Bobby. 

Then all at once they looked at one another, and 
stared — nay, glared — at the unshapely parcels which 
all carried. 

‘^Bananas?” gasped Aunt Hilda. 

‘‘Bananas?'' echoed grandma. 

*^Not bananas?" groaned grandpa, mopping his 
brow. 

“Bananananas," babbled Mrs. Burton. 

“They sent them from the village, after all." 

“There was a new man driving the cart, and he 
called while I was slee — sitting in the garden." 

“I got a dozen at Kennaway." 

“Jack b-brought a dozen from t — town." 

A long pause pregnant with dismay was broken 
at last by a small voice : 
want " 

Bobby got no further, for they surrounded him, 
eagerly tearing open the parcels, proffering him 
his heart's desire in abundance. 

But Bobby drew back. In an aggrieved tone of 
voice he said : 

“I don't want a beenahna. ... I want some 
styawbcrries.” 


CHAPTER TWO ’SPECIALLY PEESHKA” 


“It’s so good of you, Bella,” said Mrs. Jack 
Burton not for the first time; “so awfully good of 
you. I’m sure I don’t know how to thank you.” 
She turned to smile at her cousin, a young woman 
with pleasant features and what may be termed a 
capable air, and then resumed preening her fine 
feathers at the mirror. 

“Nonsense!” replied her cousin. “There’s 
nothing good about it. I’m just delighted to have 
the chance of looking after Bobby, and it is high 
time that you and Jack had an evening out together. 
How long is it since you and he have appeared in 
public simultaneously ?” 

“In public how?” Mrs. Burton seldom used 
long words herself, and at the moment she was 
distracted by the loveliness of the gown which her 
husband had insisted on her getting for the occasion. 

“How long is it since you have gone to an enter- 
tainment together ? Four years?” 

“Nearly. You see, neither of us could bear the 
idea of leaving Bobby alone at night, and Hilda 
can’t very well leave mother, and Jack’s sisters are 


21 


22 


Bobby 


awfully nice, but they don’t understand anything 
about children — except at parties — and they 
wouldn’t know what to do if Bobby woke up, or felt 
ill, or was cross, or anything, and we couldn’t afford 
a real superior nurse, not that we should have liked 
leaving him with the finest nurse in the world — and 
so, you see, one of us has always stayed at home 
when the other had to go out, which made it quite 
impossible for us to go out together.” This ex- 
planation was vouchsafed without a moment’s halt 
in the preening operations. 

“Well,” Bella remarked, “it’s certainly time you 
were seen together of an evening, or people will be- 
gin to think you have made an unhappy marriage.” 

“I don’t care what people think,” Mrs. Burton 
declared with a toss of her head. “What are a lot 
of silly, gossipy, ill-natured old noodles compared 
with Bobby?” 

“What indeed! . . . Now, can I help you, Ethel? 
— No! I wouldn’t touch you. Everything about 
you is simply perfect!” 

“Truly?” The little thundercloud vanished. 
“But, oh Bella, I’m so glad you are home from 
London at last. I couldn^t have left Bobby in 
charge of anyone else. You must have such a 
knowledge of children after all your experience with 
Lady Silvertre’s little girls. Of course I was wild 
to go to a first night ” 


'Specially Peeshka" 


23 


Mr. Burton, in evening dress, entered the room. 

‘‘Bobby has fallen asleep at last,” he announced. 

His wife gave a small screech. “Jack! Whafs 
that on your shirt-front?” 

Mr. Burton looked down. “Oh Lord, it’s that 
confounded plasticine! Didn’t know he had any 
in bed. Wondered why he was so quiet while I 
was telling him that fairy tale. . . . Well, I suppose 
I must change. Shan’t be a minute. By the way, 
did you give Bella the list of Bobby’s patent words?” 

“I’m going to give it her immediately. Do run 
and change, Jack, or we shall be late.” 

Mr. Burton disappeared. 

“What list did he refer to?” Bella inquired. 

“I’m glad he mentioned it, for I had forgotten 
all about it. The thoughtful man has made out a 
list of some of Bobby’s funny little words — I’m 
afraid Jack invented a good many of them — so 
that if he — I mean Bobby — woke up and asked for 
anything, you would have no difficulty in under- 
standing what he wanted.” 

Bella laughed reassuringly. “It would be a 
strange childish tongue I could not understand,” 
she said. “I’ve had some experience of baby 
language; but even if I were stone deaf, I’m con- 
fident I could understand their wants by a sort of 
instinct.” 

“I’m sitre you could, dear,” said Mrs. Burton, 


24 


Bobby 


examining her nose in the mirror. course, 

Bobby isn’t exactly a baby. Some of his words 
are almost like real Greek — so Jack says. I wonder 
if you could guess the meaning of peeshka?'* 

sounds more Russian than Greek,” Bella re- 
marked. admit that I haven’t the slightest idea 
of what it means when you say it, but from Bobby’s 
lips it would be certain to explain itself.” 

‘^You’re so clever!” murmured Mrs. Jack — 
to her nose. “By the way,” she added, “his 
peeshka is his special friend. But I’ll give you 
the list before I go. I hope he won’t wake up at 
all. If it weren’t for that nasty little cold, I’m 
sure he wouldn’t stir. Oh, it’s so good of you to 
take charge of him, dear!” 

“Rubbish ! I’m going to have a most delightful 
evening, Ethel. For my own sake I sincerely trust 
that Bobby will wake up. He’s simply the duckiest 
boy I’ve discovered.” 

“He has certainly fallen in love with you/^ said 
Mrs. Jack, taking the lid from a powder-box, hesi- 
tating, and replacing it without disturbing the 
contents. “I do hope you won’t mind Barbara 
being rather stupid. She has been with us only a 
week, you know, but she is thoroughly honest, and 
her parents are such delightful — I mean decent — 
people, though she can’t cook a bit. Still, she’s 
always respectful, and Jack’s boots shine like ” 


'Specially Peeshka" 


25 


''I’ll send Barbara to bed at ten sharp,” Bella 
said. "And I’ll guarantee to provide as dainty a 
little supper as ever you ” 

"I say, the cab’s there,” exclaimed Mr. Burton, 
looking in. "Get a move on, dear.” 

"Heavens ! I’ve been ready for ages.” 

"Well, let’s go.” He turned to his wife’s cousin. 
"A thousand thanks, Bella. I don’t think the 
boy will trouble you. Has Ethel given you the 
list? I 

"Goodness! Here it is, Bella,” cried Mrs. Jack. 

"I meant to have explained some of the words,” 
he went on; "but the list should keep you right. 
He’s a queer little beggar. When he’s half asleep 
he won’t use plain English. Come along, Ethel.” 

"Are you sure you will understand everything?” 
inquired Mrs. Jack, a trifle anxiously. 

"Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m only taking 
the list to please you,” said Bella smiling. "Off 
you both go to your night out. Don’t worry about 
Bobby. He and I shall be very much all right I” 

Having inspected her slumbering offspring, and 
instructed her cousin what to do in the event of 
his coughing in his sleep, or waking up with a 
"stuffy” nose, Mrs. Burton departed with her 
husband, a charming prey to a variety of apprehen- 
sions. 

"As if I didn’t understand Bobby thoroughly 


26 


Bobby 


after these three days with him!” said Bella to 
herself, laughing softly. ‘Tarents are so funny!” 

A little later, provided with a book and some 
magazines, she entered the Burtons’ bedroom. 
Bobby, who had insisted on sleeping in the big 
bed during his parents’ absence, looked exceedingly 
comfortable — a shade too rosy, perhaps, but then 
he had a slight cold. 

It was a fine spring evening ; the weather, indeed, 
had become almost oppressively warm within the 
last twelve hours. Bella seated herself at one of 
the open windows. It was still light enough for 
reading. She opened a magazine, and then remem- 
bered the list Ethel had given her. 

‘^Bother!” she muttered, and went unwillingly 
to her own room for it. “I suppose I had better 
read it to please them, poor anxious things,” she 
reflected on her return, and settling herself once 
more, she unfolded the paper. A sheet of foolscap 
covered with Jack’s small, neat writing, rewarded 
her gaze. 

“Mercy!” she exclaimed, “it’s a blessed vocabu- 
lary !” She began to read : 

Bobby’s Words with their Meanings 

Cokey, Head. 

Bokey, Nose. 

Poodies, Hands. 

Tobeys, Toes. 


“ ’Specially Peeshka” 


27 


Gog-gog, Father’s photo on mantelpiece. 

Peeshka, Down-quilt (Don’t let him chew corners). 

Nicey, Cold Cream. 

Oggly-ogglies, Glycerine. 

Frankie, Hot-water Bottle. 

Miss Peeriwig, Mermaid Doll. 

Bugabee . . . 

At this point her study of the strange document 
was interrupted by the entrance of Barbara with 
the evening post. There were several letters for 
her, one of which seemed to be especially welcome. 
She laid the others along with the list on the window 
sill. 

‘‘You may go to bed at ten, Barbara, or as soon 
as you like. I shall cook supper for Mr. and Mrs. 
Burton on the gas-stove.” 

“You won’t be feared to be left alone with him, 
miss?” Barbara inquired, with a motion of her 
head in the direction of the bed. 

“Nonsense !” laughed Bella, opening the welcome 
letter. 

Looking doubtful, the maid withdrew, and pre- 
sently Bella heard her clumping down the stairs. 
Soon she heard the kitchen door being closed, and 
ere long the house became silent. 

Bella read the letter, which covered fifteen and 
a half pages, twice. She would have read it again, 
had not the light failed. Possibly because her eyes 
could gain no more from it just then, she put it to 


28 


Bobby 


her lips and thence to her heart. Thereafter she 
appeared to become unconscious, though she smiled 
occasionally. 

At the end of an hour and a half she came to 
herself, feeling cold. The wind had risen, and a 
strong draught was coming through the open door. 
Evidently a window on the other side of the house 
had been left open. It was almost dark. She 
rose to close the window at her side. In doing so 
she somehow tipped the unread letters over the sill. 
A moment later they were whirled away into space. 

“Tut!’' murmured Bella. “But they were only 
bills. They can be rendered again.” And she 
kissed the letter in her hand. Having closed the 
window, she left the room to find and end the cause 
of the draught, and also to procure some notepaper 
and her fountain pen. While searching for the lat- 
ter, a small wail reached her ears. 

Hurrying back to the bedroom she lit the gas, 
and discovered that Bobby had kicked ofif the clothes 
save the sheet, in which he had become amazingly 
involved. Her deft hands, however, soon made the 
boy comfortable, and ere long she was happily en- 
gaged in replying to the letter which had not, liter- 
ally speaking, been for her eyes alone. 

On her fifth page she penned the words : “Every- 
thing would be quite perfect if you were here, dear 
Harry. The little boy is simply a treat, though the 


'' 'Specially Peeshka” 29 

wonder is that he has not been spoiled. I wish his 
parents knew as much about children as I do. How- 
ever, I think they are beginning to see how well I 
understand him and manage him. He is a dear 
little ” 

“Mother!’' The word came indistinctly, accom- 
panied by movement of bedclothes. Bella sat up. 
“What is it, Harry — I mean Bobby, dear?” 

“Mother!” 

Bella rose reluctantly, and laid down her pen. 
She had a theory that children should not only tell 
but be told the truth. 

“Mother isn’t here, duckie,” she said, going to 
the bedside, “but Auntie Bella is. What do you 
want, Bobby?” 

There was a short silence. 

“Get mother!” said a sleepy but imperative 
voice. 

“Mother is out with daddy. They’ll be home 

in ” she consulted her watch — “in about two 

hours. Tell auntie what you want, duckie.” 

There was no reply, save a brief series of sniffs. 

“He has dropped off again,” Bella reflected with 
satisfaction. “I knew he would. I have his con- 
fidence, the dear little soul.” She adjusted the dis- 
ordered bedclothes, patted the small body, and re- 
turned to her writing. 

Four minutes passed. She wrote : 


30 Bobby 

. And, oh, Harry, you must never 

think ’’ 

Then the belclothes were stirred again. 

‘Want peeshka,” came the mumble. 

“What?’’ said Bella, the least thing sharply. 
“What do you want, Bobby dear ?” she added gent- 
ly, coming back to Earth and approaching the bed. 

Bobby appeared to have forgotten what he 
wanted precisely. He sniffed several times without 
opening his eyes, and said: 

“Nicey on bokey.” 

“Yes, darling. I’ll fetch you a drink in one 
moment.” 

“Nicey on bokey,” he repeated querulously. 

“Idiot that I am !” muttered Bella, and ran to the 
window. “The List !” 

There she realised that the “vocabulary” had been 
blown away with the bills. She went back to the 
bed. 

“You would like a drink of nice water, wouldn’t 
you, Bobby?” she enquired bravely. 

*‘No! Nicey on bokey.” 

“Are — aren’t you feeling very comfy, darling?” 

“Cokey too hot, tobeys too cold,” came the re- 
ply, as he kicked the bedclothes from him. “Want 
peeshka,” he added. 

“Yes, yes; Auntie Bella will get them all in a 
minute.” 


'Specially Peeshka” 


31 


‘^Want Frankie, too.’* 

“Frankie?” 

“Oggly-ogglies, too.” 

“Oh — certainly, darling.” 

“Get peeshka.” 

Bella put her hand to her head. 

''Get peeshka r 

Bella dropped her hand and gazed wildly round 
the room. 

“Want peeshka and bugabee.” 

She could perceive no object having the slightest 
resemblance to either. “Bobby dear,” she said at 
last, “if you will lie still for one little minute. Auntie 
Bella will bring everything you want.” She went 
hastily from the room, downstairs, and into the 
kitchen. 

Snorts came from an adjoining chamber. It was 
plain that the maid had taken her at her word. 

“Barbara!” 

The snorts continued. 

Bella rapped loudly on the door. “Barbara! 
. . . Barbara, for goodness’ sake, wake up !” 

From within came creaking, groaning sounds. 
Then a muffled voice 

“Oh, dash the milk!” 

“Barbara!” 

“Oh Moses ! Is it you, miss?” 

“Get up, Barbara; I wish to speak to you. Can 


32 


Bobby 


you tell me what Master Bobby wants when he 
asks for a peeshka and Harry? — I mean Frankie — 
oh dear, I can’t remember the other words. But 
perhaps you can tell me about the first word — 
peeshka.” 

‘Teeshka, miss?” 

‘'Yes. Is — is it something to eat or drink?” 

“Lor, miss, I couldn’t say.” 

“Well, who or what is Frankie, then?” 

Barbara recovered from a fit of sneezing. “May- 
be it’s the little boy next door,” she said. “Oh, but 
the little boy’s name is William.” 

“I don’t think Bobby meant a little boy. He said 
his bokey or cokey — I forget which — was cold and 
he wanted Frankie. Don’t you know any of his 
words at all?” 

“I’m sure I’ve heard him sayin’ some queer 
words, miss ; but I don’t know what he meant.” 

Bella sighed. “You had better go back to bed, 
Barbara. I’ll try him with some biscuits.” 

She ascended to the bedroom. 

“Thank Heaven,” she whispered, for Bobby was 
lying perfectly still, having, apparently, forgotten 
all his wants. 

She laid the biscuits on the mantelshelf and sat 
down to her writing. An hour passed. Glancing 
at her watch she saw that the hands were moving 
towards eleven. “I’ll finish this page,” she thought. 


‘‘ 'Specially Peeshka" 


33 


"'and then see about supper.” Whereupon she shook 
her pen and wrote : 

“And so, my dearest Harry — — ” 

“Want peeshka.” 

Rising with a jerk, she checked an impatient 
word. “Coming, duckie,” she said pleasantly, and 
carried a biscuit to the bed. 

“Here’s a delicious — er — peeshka,” she proceeded, 
taking a leap in the dark, as it were. “I was sure 
my boy was hungry.” She placed the biscuit in the 
small groping hand. 

Next moment the biscuit went hurtling across the 
bed, while a wail of wrath told her she had leapt in 
vain. 

“Peeshka! Get peeshka! Want to cuddle 
peeshka.” 

“Ah!” she cried, jumping up. “Now I know 
what my boy wants. Wasn’t Auntie Bella a stupid 
goose?” 

“Yesh,” murmured Bobby. 

She ran to the dressing-table and snatched up a 
strange-looking doll that had reposed thereon. She 
flew back to the bed and laid the doll in Bobby’s 
arms. 

He threw it at her. “Don’t want Miss Peeriwig! 
Want peeshka!” 

“Oh Heaven!” she moaned. 

Bobby was now three-parts awake. 


34 


Bobby 


‘‘Get peeshkaT’ he roared. “Put nicey on 
bokey! Give oggly-ogglies ! Want mother! Want 
daddy!” 

“Shall Auntie Bella tell a pretty story?” 

''No! Want panto!” 

“Panto? Great Heavens!” 

“And nicey and oggly-ogglies and peeshka.” 

“Do you want peeshka most of all?” she feebly 
enquired. 

“Get peeshka — gog-gog, too.” 

“Wh-where is gog-gog?” 

Bobby sat up, rubbing his eyes with one hand, 
pointing with the other. , 

“Is it on the mantelpiece ?” she asked, with a faint 
feeling of hope. 

“Yesh! Get it!” His pointing* finger wa- 
vered. 

Bella went to the mantelpiece. “Is it in a bottle, 
Bobby?” 

He replied with a shout of anger. 

“Is this it? — this? — ^this?” She passed from 
one object to another, while he howled his indigna- 
tion. At last a shriek of delight caused her to 
halt. 

“Why,” she exclaimed, “it's your father's 
photo.” 

“Gog-gog,” gurgled Bobby, clasping the much- 
handled card to his breast. 


'Specially Peeshka” 


35 


"‘Well, if that’s gog-gog,” sighed Bella, ‘'what 
on earth is peeshka?” 

“Get peeshka.” 

“Can — can you see peeshka now?” 

“No. Get it!” 

“Is there nothing else you want?” 

“Oggly-ogglies.” 

“Where is it — them — ^they, I mean?” 

Again Bobby indicated the mantelpiece. 

At the third attempt Bella guessed aright. “But 
this is glycerine,” she said. 

“Get spoon,” he returned. 

A teaspoon lay handy, and presently he had swal- 
lowed the pleasing dose with smiles and sounds of 
satisfaction. Then he lifted up his voice once more. 
“Want peeshka, too !” 

“Oh ” 

There was a tap at the door. 

“Please, miss, I think I once heard him callin’ 
this thing a Henry, so I filled it.” The arm of 
Barbara came round the door and deposited on the 
floor a hot-water bottle. 

“Frankie !” cried Bobby. 

“Is that what you wanted?” asked Bella. 

“Don’t want Frankie now. Want peeshka.” 

“Bobby,” she said firmly, putting down the bot- 
tle, “I can do no more for you. You must go to 
sleep. I’ll never have supper ready in time.” 


36 


Bobby 


‘Want peeshka,” said Bobby, and wept bit- 
terly. 

She went to the dressing-table and began to tear 
open the drawers. One of them came right out, 
overturned, and scattered its contents, which in- 
cluded a large box of loose buttons, pins, and beads, 
over the carpet. 

“Is your peeshka there?” Bella demanded, con- 
trolling herself with a supreme effort. 

“No,” said Bobby, much interested in the con- 
fusion. “Open another drawer. Auntie Bel- 
low.” 

“Fll do no such thing.” 

“Want peeshka! Get peeshka!” The wail rose 
afresh. 

“Look here, Bobby ; where did mother put 
peeshka?” 

Bobby pointed all around the room. 

She attacked the wardrobe, also the drawer under 
the wardrobe, which would not go in again. Then 
she tried the big chest of drawers, shaking it so 
that a vase of daffodils tottered, toppled over, and 
was smashed on the floor to Bobby’s infinite delight. 
She set her teeth, lost her head, and dragged forth 
the contents of every drawer. 

“Is that peeshka ?” she asked at least forty times. 
And at least forty times did Bobby cheerfully an- 
swer, “No.” 


'Specially Peeshka" 37 

At last: ‘'You must just do without peeshka,” 
she panted. “I don’t believe there’s such a thing 
in the world, and, besides, you’re a very naughty 
boy, and — oh, Bobby, duckie, don’t cry, my own 
love! Don’t cry like that, dear!” 

“You said there was no p-p-peeshka in the world,” 
sobbed Bobby. “Want peeshka.” 

She renewed the search more frantically than 
ever. She re-examined the contents of the ward- 
robe, and all the drawers in the room. She opened 
the ottoman and went through its contents. She 
peered under the bed. She stood on a chair and 
looked on the top of the wardrobe. 

“Bobby,” she cried, descending at last, ^'must you 
have it? Do you especially want peeshka? Will 
nothing else do?” 

“ ’Specially peeshka ! More oggly-ogglies, too.” 

“I’ll give you more goggly-gogglies if you won’t 
ask for peeshka.” 

“Want peeshka. ’Specially peeshka.” With sobs 
Bobby disappeared beneath the bedclothes. 

Bella threw herself into a chair. “I’m done,” 
she groaned to the ceiling. 

Suddenly a yell of rapture came from the bed. 
Bobby reappeared from under the clothes, dragging 
forth a small pale-blue satin quilt. 

“Peeshka! Found darlin’ peeshka! Come, kiss 
peeshka, Auntie Bellow!” 


38 Bobby 

Bella rose; her hands were clenched. Then all 
at once she laughed. 

At that moment a cab was heard to stop at the 
front door. 


TAPIOCA 


CHAPTER THREE 


I 

' “Don’t like this bubbly pudding,” Bobby de- 
clared, and pushed away his plate. 

“Bubbly pudding !” exclaimed his mother. “Why, 
Bobby, it’s beautiful tapioca!” 

“ ’Tisn’t beautiful! It’s hidjus — and I hate it!” 

“Come, come ; snap it up, dear. It’ll make you big 
and strong.” 

“Don’t want to be big and strong. Want stewed 
pears, like daddy. He doesn’t eat bubbly pudding.” 

“He did, when he was a little boy like you.” 

“I didn’t — at least, not if I could avoid it,” said 
Mr. Burton. “Horrid stuff!” 

“Oh, Jack,” cried his wife, “can’t you be a little 
discreet ?” 

“I prefer to tell the truth,” retorted Jack, who 
happened to be unusually irritable this Sunday. 
“If he can’t eat the pudding, give him pears, 
Ethel.”' 

“He can have pears afterwards,” said Mrs. 
Burton firmly. “But he must take his nice pudding 
first. Come, Bobby. See! I’m putting heaps of 
sugar on it!” Here she made a pretence of tasting 
39 


40 


Bobby 


it, and exclaimed rapturously, *Why, it’s simply 
delicious !” 

‘It’s too slippery and slimy,” said Bobby, making 
a face. “I won’t have it. You can eat it.” 

“If you don’t take it at once,” said Mrs. Burton, 
in a low, strained voice, “you can’t go to grand- 
mamma’s on Saturday.” 

“Don’t want to go to grandmamma’s. Hate 
grandmamma !” 

“Bobby!” 

“Draw it mild, old chap,” said Mr. Burton, check- 
ing a laugh. 

“There is no need to talk slang to the child,” Mrs. 
Burton said stiffly. “Bobby, what do you mean by 
saying you hate your dear grandmamma ?” 

“Oh, he doesn’t mean anything,” began Mr. Bur- 
ton soothingly. 

“Hate everybody I” screamed Bobby. “Hate 
everything!” With his spoon he gave the pudding 
a vicious smack, sending a spray of milk over the 
cloth, slid from his chair, and sank beneath the table. 

“Bobby, if you don’t come out this very minute,” 
cried his mother, “I shall have to punish you.” 

“I say, Ethel,” said Mr. Burton, “let him alone 
in the meantime.” 

“Let him alone, indeed!” she returned. “Why, 
he has been extremely naughty; and it’s all your 
fault. You encourage 


Tapioca 41 

“It's all the confounded tapioca's fault," he re- 
joined. 

“I do wish you would not swear, Jack." 

“Tut, Ethel ! What on earth is the use of insist- 
ing on the child eating stuff he detests ?" 

“But tapioca is so — so wholesome." 

“Wholesome is merely another word for stodgy. 
Of course, I know it's exceedingly nutritious, et- 
cetera, etcetera." 

“But confess, Ethel," continued Mr. Burton, in a 
lighter tone, “confess that you abhor that sticky 
mess " 

“ 'Shr she whispered; “don’t let him hear you." 
Then, in quite a loud voice: “I was exceedingly 
fond of tapioca when I was a little girl. I used to 
have it nearly every other day ” 

“You don’t look like it. I’m thankful to say," 
murmured Jack. 

“Mother was a great believer in tapioca " 

“I have always made a point of respecting other 
people’s beliefs so long as no attempt was made to 
make me swallow them," said Mr. Burton. 

“If you mean to suggest that my mother ” 

“Mother," piped a small voice from beneath the 
table, “your stocking’s full of holes !" 

''Whatr shrieked Mrs. Burton, forgetting that 
she was wearing a pair of “openworks.” When 
she remembered the fact, she was so relieved that 


42 


Bobby 


she joined in her husband’s laugh, whereupon 
Bobby, unabashed, came forth from his refuge and 
demanded some stewed pears. 

‘The pudding is stone-cold,” said Jack. “You 
wouldn’t give it to a pig now, would you ?” 

“It’s a mercy that Jane loves it,” sighed Mrs. 
Burton. “Yes, Bobby, you may have one pear, 
though you certainly don’t deserve it.” 

“Heaps of juice, daddy,” commanded Bobby. 

II 

In the evening, when Bobby lay in his crib slum- 
bering like a little angel, Mr. Burton put his arm 
round his wife and softly expressed his regret for 
his irritability at dinner. He had been feeling 
a bit out of sorts, he explained. Whereupon Mrs. 
Burton generously admitted that she had been hor- 
rid, too, and declared her conviction that tapioca, 
besides being the silliest word in the dictionary, was 
the vilest pudding in the universe. 

“But, you see, there’s mother,” she concluded 
with a sigh. 

Mr. Burton was not unaccustomed to his wife’s 
irrelevances, and generally let them pass; but on 
this occasion he was constrained to inquire what his 
mother-in-law had to do with the subject of tapioca. 

“Everything,” was the reply, delivered with an- 
other sigh, heavier than the first. 


T apioca 43 

Mr. Burton lit a cigarette. ‘'What is the horrible 
mystery, old girl?” he asked, and placed the most 
comfortable chair for her. 

Mrs. Burton sank into it with a tiny, miserable 
laugh. “It’s so silly,” she murmured, “and yet it’s 
so awfully serious. I — I suppose I had better con- 
fess the whole thing.” 

“For my own sake, I wish you would, Ethel,” 
said her husband, leaning his elbow on the mantel- 
piece and knocking over a photo frame, which was 
smashed on the hearth. 

“Never mind,” said Ethel wearily, ignoring his 
remark of one syllable. “Leave it alone. It’s only 
Aunt Ellen. Jane will take it away in the morn- 
ing. I’ve got to tell you about the tapioca and 
mother.” 

“All right,” assented Mr. Burton, rising" with the 
photograph, which he had rescued from the wreck- 
age. “There ought to be a tax on photos. Getting 
photographed has become nothing less than a bad 
habit.” 

“Yes; we’ve two drawers full. I thought Aunt 
Ellen might call on Friday; that’s why I put hers 
there. Well, about the tapioca ” 

“And mother!” 

“Jack, don’t laugh at me 1” 

“I’m not laughing, Ethel.” 

“Well, don’t curl your eyes. ... I think I 


44 


Bobby 


told you that mother is a great believer in 
tapioca.” 

“You did. You also told me that you were 
largely brought up on it, and I replied to the effect 
that you didn’t look a ‘tapioca girl.’ But how 
your mother’s belief in tapioca should affect us, I 
don’t quite see. Unless — I say, has your mother 
been sending you a present of tapioca? I didn’t 
know they grew it in Canada.” 

“No ; she hasn’t sent me a present — exactly — — ” 
Mrs. Burton halted with a groan. 

“Really,” said Mr. Burton, “I’ll begin to think 
something is wrong in a minute. Your mother 
and father have just returned from a stay with your 
brother in Winnipeg; she has kindly asked us to 
lunch on Saturday ” 

“That’s the awful part of it!” 

“What? Won’t you be glad to see your mother 
again ?” 

“Of course; but — ^but — I’ve been deceiving her, 
and on Saturday she will find me out !” 

“Deceiving her! How?” 

“I’ve been trying to tell you. I’d have told you 
by now if it hadn’t been for Aunt Ellen. She put 
me off my thoughts by falling off the mantel- 
piece ” 

“That was my fault, dear.” 

“No, it wasn’t. She had no business to get pho- 


T apioca 


45 


tographed. But 1^11 tell you the whole truth now. 
Do sit down, and don’t look at me.” 

Mr. Burton seated himself on the couch. ‘‘Don’t 
tell me anything,” he said kindly, “if it worries you 
to tell it.” 

“Oh, but I must tell you, because you must help 
me afterwards. I need help badly, Jack,” she pro- 
ceeded. “You know how interested mother has 
always been in Bobby.” 

“Rather! She has been more than decent in 
sending him ” 

“But I mean in his upbringing*, and so on.” 

“I suppose that is natural in a grandmother.” 

“Yes; but — but perhaps she takes more interest 
than most grandmothers. She has always been very, 
very interested in Bobby’s diet. And nearly all her 
letters have had something about it in them. And 
as I said, she — she’s a great believer in tapioca.” 

At this, Mr. Burton threw his cigarette into the 
fire and slapped his knee. “My poor darling,” he 
cried, “so that’s the worry! You wanted to please 
the old lady by getting Bobby to take tapioca!. 
Why didn’t you tell me before?” 

“I was afraid you would think it silly — not of 
mother, of course, but ” 

“Of course not! We all have our strong con- 
victions. I’m as sorry as you can be that Bobby 
won’t take it to please her. I’d take it myself to 


46 


Bobby 


please your mother, Ethel. At least, Ed try. How- 
ever, you’ve done your best. We must just be 
honest and tell your mother — I’ll explain to her, if 
you like ” 

Mrs. Burton threw up her hands. ‘‘No, no, no! 
You mustn’t do any such thing! Oh, dear! Why 
did I ever stoop to deceit! You see. Jack, I didn’t 
want to hurt mother’s feelings, and I let her think 
all along that I was giving Bobby tapioca regularly, 
and I let her think also that Bobby was taking it. 
In fact (what a wretch I am), she thinks now that 
Bobby is fearfully fond of it, and her letter asking 
us to lunch says she is having a tapioca pudding 
specially prepared by her own method for her 
d-d-dear little grandson. . . . And Bobby will call 
it ‘nasty bubbly pudding’ and refuse to touch it!” 
Here Mrs. Burton covered her face with her hands. 
“What on earth is to be done, I cannot think 1” she 
wailed. 

Her husband removed himself from the couch to 
the arm of her easy-chair, and slipped his arm round 
her shoulders. “The position is difficult,” he said 
gravely; “but we need not despair.” 

“But, Jack, don’t you think I’ve been a horrid 
wretch ?” 

“It is one of the first duties of young married 
people to deceive their parents, if by so doing they 
can add to their happiness — their parents’ happiness, 


T apioca 


47 


of course. And think how you have added to your 
mother’s happiness during past years by allowing 
her to believe that Bobby was devoted to tapioca !” 

‘‘Jack, don’t chaff!” 

“I’m not chaffing, dear. You know yourself how 
proudly she would speak of it to your father and 
sister. I can fancy her reading bits from your 
letters ” 

“I could die with shame I” 

“Nonsense !” 

“And yet I have been punished. Jack. I was 
punished at dinner to-day. Until the last moment 
I hoped and hoped that Bobby might somehow 
like the tapioca^ — ^though it nearly made me ill to 
look at it — and when he called it Jbubbly’ — ugh! 
. . . Jack, what on earth is to be done about mother 
on Saturday? I’m sure I shan’t sleep a wink till 
then.” 

“Oh, yes, you will. We’ll find a way out,” de- 
clared Mr. Burton, albeit with a great deal more con- 
fidence than he felt. 

* 5|c ♦ ♦ 

At 1. 1 5 a.m., he said : “Ethel, I have an idea!” 

“What is it ?” she asked eagerly. 

“We must induce Bobby not only to eat tapioca, 
but to like it.” 

“Oh, dear ! I have had that idea for two years.” 


48 


Bobby 


‘‘Have you?” said Mr. Burton, nettled. “Do 
you happen to have any plans for carrying out the 
idea?” 

“Thousands!” 

“You might mention one or two.” 

“I won’t mention anything, if you talk in that 
smirky tone of voice.” 

Mr. Burton let the remark pass. 

“Well,” said his wife, after a pause, “I thought 
of putting a new sixpence in the pudding ” 

“He might choke ” 

“Of course that occurred to me at once, and I 
remembered he had a bright five-shilling piece in 
his little bank. That would be quite safe. 
Then ” 

“How do you propose to introduce it into your 
mother’s pudding — after getting it out of the 
bank ?” 

“Stupid ! I never thought of doing such a thing. 
It was merely to get him to like the pudding to 
begin with.” 

“And then there would be a nice row when he 
struck a pudding without cash in it.” 

“Oh,” said Mrs. Burton, wearily, “I do wish you 
would go to sleep.” 

“I wish I could,” he retorted. “I can see only 
one way out of the difficulty. I don’t believe in 
bribery. We must employ the force of example. If 


T apioca 


49 


Bobby were to see you enjoying tapioca every day 
for, say, a week, he would in all probability 

‘‘He has seen me eat it often, and IVe done my 
best to look as if I were enjoying it. It might do 
some good if he were to see his father enjoying 
it. Boys always like to do what their fathers 
do.” 

There was a short silence ere Mr. Burton said: 
‘T should be perfectly willing to eat tapioca every 
day; only Bobby happens to be too young to wait 
up for dinner.” 

“Yes, we can^t sacrifice his health,” sighed Mrs. 
Burton. “Ah, well ! Heaven only knows what will 
happen on Saturday. I suppose it served me right 
for being such a hypocrite, and the worst of it is 
that you and mother must suffer also.” 

At this Mr. Burton’s resentment evaporated, and 
he became tender and optimistic. Possibly he 
soothed his own mind more than his wife’s, for ere 
long only she was awake. 

* ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ 

“Jack!” It was half an hour later. “Jack, IVe 
got it I” 

“Eh? What?” grunted Mr. Burton. “Surely 

it’s not time What are you getting up for, 

Ethel?” 

“I’m going to speak to Jane,” she replied. 


50 


Bobby 


fluttering into her dressing-gown. ‘‘She had better 
be up a little earlier than usual.'' 

“What on earth for?" 

“To have the tapioca ready. We shall have it for 
breakfast every morning this week, and you can 

show Bobby " The remainder of her remarks 

were lost with the opening of the door. 

“Good Lord!" groaned Mr. Burton. “Tapioca 
for breakfast!" 

Nevertheless, on the succeeding mornings, he 
played his part manfully. And it must be recorded 
that he was nobly supported by his wife, who 
helped him not only to empty the pudding dish, but 
also to sustain the conversation concerning the 
delectable contents. Not the least admirable quality 
of the conversation was its simplicity. Even a 
child of Bobby's tender years could hardly fail to 
follow it. 

“Isn't it delicious. Jack?" 

“Prime, Ethel! I wish I had had tapioca for 
breakfast every day when I was a boy." 

“It's so good ! Let me give you a little more, dear." 

“After you, darling. . . . Oh, thanks. Don’t 
give me it all. I believe that nearly all brave sol- 
diers and sailors and — er — engine-drivers prefer 
this to — er — anything." 


T apioca 


SI 


you hear that, Bobby? You’re going to be 
an engine-driver, aren’t you ?” 

“Not if I’ve got to eat bubbly pudding.” 

“But it has such a lovely taste, dearie. Nyum, 
nyum !” 

“Nicey, nicey!” 

And so on. At first Bobby regarded his parents’ 
unprecedented gluttony with round-eyed astonish- 
ment; later, with a mildly sympathetic interest. It 
was strange that they should suddenly come to like 
“bubbly pudding” so much. He was vaguely glad 
he didn’t like it, for that meant that there was more 
for them to eat. When they invited him to taste 
the tiniest little bit he refused sweetly but firmly. 

On the Saturday morning Mr. and Mrs. Burton 
made a supreme effort. They pretended to quarrel 
over the last spoonful in the dish, and suggested that 
Bobby should settle the matter by snapping it up. 
Bobby perceived the suggestion, but rejected it 
quietly, and offered to act as divider of the disputed 
portion. 

The father restrained his temper, the mother her 
tears, and both rose to ring for Jane to remove the 
dish. Jane did so in a manner suggesting that she 
feared the remnant of tapioca would bite her were 
it offered the chance. She had determined to give 
notice on the following Monday. Tapioca at 8 a.m. 
daily was “the limit,” so far as she was concerned. 


52 


Bobby 


“Isn’t it jolly we’re going to grandmamma’s to- 
day?” Bobby blithely observed. “Won’t I be glad 
if she gives you bubbly pudding!” 

Ill 

“Don’t give way, Ethel,” Mr. Burton murmured 
to his wife in the train, a few hours later. 

“I wish I had been taken seriously ill at the last 
moment,” said she. “But that would have been 
cowardly, I suppose,” she added. “You will re- 
member to talk very loud and hard, won’t you, when 
the pudding comes?” 

“Don’t fret. I’ll do my best, old girl,” Mr. Bur- 
ton replied, with a lightness he was far from feel- 
ing. “And I’m going to put that little mechanical 
duck I bought on the table. It’s rather funny the 
way it walks. Like to see it now ?” 

“Oh, there’s nothing funny left in the world,” 
moaned Mrs. Burton. “But it may help to distract 
mother’s attention.” 

“Daddy,” said Bobby from the window, “do you 
think the engine-driver of this train lives on bubbly 
pudding?” 

“I shouldn’t wonder,” was the somewhat evasive 
answer, as the poor man clutched at the straw. 

“I’m not going to be an engine-driver, anyway,” 
said Bobby, “nor a sailor. I think I’ll be a stores.” 

“But stores have tapioca.” 


Tapioca 53 

'‘Have they? Then I’ll give you and mother 
heaps and heaps for nothing!” A pause. “Why 
don’t you say ‘thank you,’ mother? Oh, there’s a 
green engine ! Daddy, why was that engine green ?” 

:jc 4: :<c 

Bobby was enjoying the earlier course of his lunch 
tremendously, which was more than could be said of 
his parents. Indeed, the hostess expressed concern 
at their wretched appetites. 

“Come, Jack! come, Ethel!” she said; “I insist 
on giving you a little more chicken. You have eaten 
nothing.” 

“I ’spect they’re hoping it’s going to be bubbly 
pudding,” remarked Bobby, with his mouth full of 
potato and cauliflower. 

“What does the darling say?” enquired the old 
lady. 

“Oh, nothing,” said Mr. Burton, feeling for the 
mechanical duck, only to realise that he had left it 
in the pocket of his overcoat. 

“He loves chicken,” said Mrs. Burton. “And so 
do we,” she added hastily, “only you gave us such 
huge supplies, mother.” 

“I said,” began Bobby, and, happily, choked. By 
the time he had recovered he had no breath left for 
conversation, save to ask for more cauliflower, 
“with heaps of white sauce,” and his parents, pulling 


54 


Bobby 


themselves together, proceeded to ply the hostess 
with questions relating to life in Winnipeg, while 
they wished that he might take as long as possible 
to “make a clean plate.” 

But all too speedily he laid down his fork and 
spoon with a satisfied “Done!” And the hostess 
pressed the electric button at her left hand. 

How soon the table was cleared for the next 
course — the pudding course! And yet Mr. and 
Mrs. Burton’s stock of questions was exhausted 
sooner. 

“Where’s the duck?” whispered the desperate 
Mrs. Burton, but not softly enough to escape Bobby. 

“Are we having duck as well as chicken?” said 
Bobby. 

“Oh, no, my dear,” laughed his grandmother. 
“We are now going to have some delightful ” 

At this juncture the maid, looking worried, mur- 
mured something into her mistress’s ear. 

“Well, of all 'he provoking things to happen!” 
cried the old lady. “Dear, dear! Very well, Sarah, 
just let us have the fruit now.” She turned to her 
guests. “I never was so vexed in my life — never! 
That careless cook of mine has allowed my special 
tapioca to get hopelessly burnt !” 

At these words Mrs. Burton sank back in her 
chair with something like a sob; Mr. Burton, with 
his napkin, stifled a hysterical cackle. And Bobby 


Tapioca 55 

upset his tumbler and burst into a most dismal 
wailing. 

It was some little time ere the torrent of grief 
was even partially stayed. 

‘‘My dearest child/' cried his distressed grand- 
mother, “I’m so sorry to disappoint you so bit- 
terly!” 

“Oh, poor daddy! poor mother!” sobbed Bobby; 
“what will they do without their bubbly p-pud- 
ding?” 

“We won’t talk about it,” said the old lady gently. 
But later in the afternoon she found, an opportunity 
of telling Ethel and Jack that she firmly believed 
their generous-hearted son was born to be a great 
philanthropist; and at the same time she presented 
the same son with a beautiful new sovereign — to be 
going on with, no doubt. 


CHAPTER FOUR A PRESENT FOR BOBBY 


Though detained at the office later than usual, 
Mr. Jack Burton reached his home — ‘The Nest’' — 
on Christmas Eve in the best of humours. Having 
let himself in with his lartchkey, he was hardly re- 
strained from emitting a joyous whoop announcing 
his advent by the charming vision of his young wife 
standing midway down the staircase, her finger 
raised in a signal of warning. 

“Asleep?” he whispered, rather disappointedly, 
ridding himself of sundry parcels, large and small. 

Mrs. Burton descended as though the steps were 
made of egg-shell china. 

“I think so,” she said under her breath, with an 
anxious upward glance. “He has been so excited 
all day at the prospect of Santa Claus,” she went on, 
helping to remove her husband’s coat, “that he was 
really absolutely exhausted by five o’clock. So I 
just put him off to bed; and I do hope — hush!” 
She dropped the coat and clutched her husband’s 
arm. “Listen !” 

“I don’t hear anything,” said Jack. 

56 


A Present for Bobby 57 

^'Shr 

A crash came from the kitchen. 

“Oh, dear!” wailed Mrs. Burton, and rushed to 
the kitchen door, and thence to the foot of the stairs, 
and again to the door, and finally back to the stairs. 
Science has not yet disclosed how a solid may be in 
two places at once; still, there are moments in a 
woman’s life when the great discovery seems immi- 
nent. 

Mr. Burton picked up his coat and hung it with 
his hat on the nearest peg. 

“Bobby seems to be sleeping right enough,” he 
remarked. 

“Then,” said his wife, with purpose in her eye, 
“I must see what that wretch ” 

Mr. Burton gently deterred her from reaching 
the kitchen door. 

“Never mind, dear; it’s Christmas Eve,” he said; 
“and it’s satisfactory to have a proof that Bobby is 
sleeping so soundly. Still, I’ll skip up and make 
sure that he’s all right. You may open the parcels, 
if you like — except the two very small ones, 
which you may open to-morrow morning, if you’re 
good.” 

“Oh!” cried Mrs. Burton. “I believe I know 
what they are from the feel of them ! How lovely 
of you, Jack!” 

“Behave yourself !” said Jack in mock dis- 


58 


Bobby 


pleasure, and ran upstairs. “And, I say,” he added 
over his shoulder, “do hurry on dinner. I want to 
test Bobby’s engine as soon as possible.” 

Mrs. Burton fled into the cosy dining-room and 
fell on her knees upon the hearthrug in the midst of 
parcels. One may be pardoned the fancy that the 
Serpent gave Eve the apple neatly done up in tissue 
paper and ribbon. 

The maid entered with the soup tureen in her 
hands, a tear strain on either cheek, an excuse at her 
lips. Jane never broke anything without the best 
of reasons, and she rarely gave the same reason 
twice within ten days. But when she perceived the 
occupation of her mistress, she swallowed the pres- 
ent reason for another occasion, and said, a little 
haughtily, perhaps : “Dinner’s ready, m’m.” (Mrs. 
Burton never could get that girl to say “served.” 
On this particular evening, however, the fault 
passed unnoticed.) 

“Oh, all right,” Mrs. Burton murmured absently. 

Three minutes later, Mr. Burton, fragrant with 
soap, came in to discover his wife endeavouring to 
induce a small parcel to look as if it hadn’t been 
opened. For a space he watched her without mak- 
ing known his presence. 

“I was only feeling it. Jack, when the stupid 
string slipped off,” she explained, starting slightly, 
with a sweet, guilty smile. 


A Present for Bobby 59 

‘‘So that’s how you didn’t hear Bobby just now,” 
he said gravely. 

“What?” She scrambled to her feet. “Don’t tell 
me he’s awake ” 

“Let’s have dinner,” he said, laughing. “Bobby’s 
all right, but I had to do something to get you away 
from these.” 

“How mean of you !” Mrs. Burton pouted as she 
took her place at the table. “But” — she twinkled — 
“I’ll forgive you if you’ll tell me something.” 

“I will tell you anything, if you’ll give me some 
soup,” he returned, attacking his bread. 

She dipped the ladle dutifully. “Are the white 
ones twelve or sixteen-button, dear?” 

“How d’you know they’re white?” 

“Oh, then they are! How lovely of you, Jack! 
But do tell me,” — passing his plate — “are they 
twelve or sixteen-button?” 

“I asked the man to give me one of each. I think 
you’ll find the right one the longer.” 

“What?” 

“It’s rude to say ‘what?’ You are aware, of 
course, that your arms are not precisely equal in 
length ?” 

“They are, they are! What on earth have you 
done. Jack?” 

“It’s the same with everybody’s arms and — legs, 
too. Ask any anatomist, and he’ll soon tell you.” 


6o 


Bobby 


Horrified, Mrs. Burton gazed at her husband. 
“You don’t mean to tell me that you bought a pair 
of gloves that weren’t a — a pair ? Why, I don’t be- 
lieve the shop people would ” 

“That was just my rotten luck — ^they wouldn’t. 
So I was forced to buy two pairs in the ordinary 
way.” 

At that Mrs. Burton rose blithely from her chair, 
and precipitated herself upon her husband, causing 
him to cast about half an ounce of pepper into his 
soup. “Oh, you dear, generous boy!” she chirped. 

By the time they were ready to proceed with the 
business of the hour, the soup (apart from the pep- 
per) was tepid, but there’s nothing like a happy mind 
for triumphing over matter, wherefore Mr. Jack 
Burton did his utmost to reassure his wife that he 
hadn’t really caught a horrid cold ; and he swallowed 
a dose of ammoniated quinine for her satisfaction, 
and a pint of cold water for his own. 

As soon as he could speak without coughing, he 
inquired whether she had guessed what might be 
contained in the biggest parcel. Not having been 
married for five years for nothing, she replied that 
she couldn’t guess for a thousand pounds. 

His smile broadened. “My present for Bobby,” 
he said. 

“Goodness ! Is that huge thing an engine, 
Jack?” 


A Present for Bobby 6i 

For a moment Mr. Burton hesitated. He had 
gone to town that morning with a cutting from a 
stores' catalogue in his pocket ; the cutting illustrat- 
ing a tin locomotive, price 3s. gd. ‘‘After all," 
he said carelessly, “I thought I might as well get 
the little beggar a complete train, and — er — a set 
of rails, you know." 

“How nice! I’m sure he’ll love that. You — 
you don’t think it will all be too much for his little 
brain, dear?" 

“My dear Ethel, haven’t you yet realised that 
Bobby is a cut above the ordinary pudding-headed 
child? You’ll find he’ll grasp the whole thing in a 
twinkling." 

“Dearest," said Ethel, “I didn’t mean to hurt 
your darling feelings. I know that Bobby is un- 
usually bright. It’s simply wonderful how he picks 
up things." 

“All right, old girl. I know you’ll back me up 
whenever you see the inside of that parcel. By the 
way, I want Jane to clear away the moment we 
have finished, and we’ll put all the leaves in the 
table. Then I’ll show you something." 

“How jolly! But don’t be cross if I’m stupid 
at first. Jack. The wonderful mechanical toys 
children get nowadays always make me a wee bit 
giddy." 

“Oh, but this is fairly simple. And it’s 


62 


Bobby 


tremendously fascinating, you’ll find. I could play 
with it myself.” Mr. Burton laughed and grew 
serious. ‘‘You’ll find, it’s an exact model of a Lon- 
don and Nor’- Western train. You never saw such 
detail. And then there’s a station, and a tunnel, 
and a turntable, and a switch.” 

Followed a little pause ere Mrs. Burton inquired 
with pretty hesitation: “Did it cost a frightful lot 
of money. Jack?” 

Mr. Burton fumbled in his pocket for the receipt 
which he had thrown from the railway carriage 
window. “Well — er — you can’t get good things for 
nothing, Ethel. The model will last for years, and 
then, by Jove, we must remember its — er — educative 
value, you know.” 

Mrs. Burton nodded her head sagely. “Just like 
a kindergarten, I suppose ?” 

“If you like to put it that way,” her husband 
returned graciously, after a momentary frown. 
“Has Bobby been talking about the engine to- 
day?” 

“He has scarcely talked about anything else!” 
replied Ethel, one of whose virtues lay in making 
the most of things, so that a grain of truth became 
a forest of facts. “But, dear, the little man expects 
nothing but the weeniest engine. What he’ll say 
when he sees the rails, and the tunnel, and the turn- 
cock, and ” 


A Present for Bobby 63 

At this point Jane entered with the evening post. 
It consisted chiefly of Christmas cards, and Mr. 
Burton requested his wife, the least thing impatient- 
ly, to put them aside and “get a move on with the 
nourishment.” 

“But, Jack, I must see whom Bobby has got cards 
from. Fancy, there are a whole five for him! Oh, 
horror! Those little pigs of children, the Pooleys, 
have sent him one ! Just like that Pooley woman’s 
cheek! She knows I don’t want Bobby to know 
her brats. And now I suppose I’ll have to speak 
to her when we meet in the train. ... I suppose 
it’s too late to send a card in return.” 

“It might look a bit obvious,” Mr. Burton ex- 
amined his watch with minute interest. “What do 
you say to funk the sweets to-night? Of course, if 
you ” 

“Not I, Jack! Glad to miss them. Just ring, 
will you? It’s only prunes and rice.” 

On the maid’s appearance, Mrs. Burton said : 

“We do not want any sweets to-night, Jane. And 
please clear away at once, and fetch the extra leaves 
for the table.” 

Jane retired, looking rather grumpy, and returned 
with the tray, looking more so. But it was unde- 
niably annoying to be told that no sweets were 
wanted, after all the trouble she had taken, half an 
hour ago, to collect the prunes from the kitchen 


64 


Bobby 


floor and wash them one by one — the more especially 
as she couldn’t a-bear prunes herself. 

Mr. Burton, lighting a cigarette, began to search 
for the key of the telescope table. It was ultimately 
discovered in the bathroom press, where Bobby had 
left it after tiring of playing at being a plumber. 

‘There are one or two things in this house,” Mr. 
Burton remarked, speaking very distinctly, “that 
Bobby ought not to be allowed to have. This is 
one of them.” 

“I’m so sorry,” said Ethel, “but he simply yelled 
till he got it. It was just another case of that dear 
little alarum clock ; you remember you gave it him 
in the end.” 

Mr. Burton shrugged his shoulders and proceeded 
to manipulate the key in the table. In a few minutes 
the extra leaves were in position and screwed tight. 

“Well, let’s open the parcel,” he cried, his good 
humour recovered, and presently two heads with 
but a single thought — in each — ^were bending over 
the big cardboard box. 

“What a lot of packing,” murmured Ethel. “It’s 
awful stuff for the carpet. I don’t know what Jane 
will say.” 

“We’ll give her a decent Qiristmas-box,” said 
Jack recklessly. “I say, isn’t it a perfect beauty?” 
He held up the little engine. 

“Oh, dear! Here’s one of the rails broken.” 


A Present for Bobby 65 

‘What? — oh, that's the switch," he explained, 
much relieved. 

“How funny!" said Ethel, who would have made 
just the same comment had the Astronomer Royal 
told her the weight of Jupiter in pounds and ounces. 
“Yes, it’s a lovely little engine, Jack," she added 
quickly. “What’s that little knob for?" 

“That works the reversing gear." 

“Oh! And that other little knob?" 

“That works the brake." 

“Goodness!" 

“Getting giddy?" Jack inquired, smiling. “But 
the fun is only beginning. Help me to get the rails 
fixed upon the table. See how neatly they fit to- 
gether. And here’s the plan to guide us." 

“And I suppose this is the funnel — I mean the 
tunnel," said Mrs. Burton. 

“Never mind it just now. Bring all the rails 
you can carry." 

“Don’t you want the turncock ?’’ 

“No, I don’t want the — turntable at present." 

They both laughed heartily, and their smiles 
were frequent, until, having fixed nearly all the rails, 
they realised that the table was not quite large 
enough. 

“Annoying," said Mr. Burton. “However, we’ll 
just push the table aside, and build on the floor. 
That’s what Bobby will want to do, anyway." 


66 


Bobby 


At the end of half an hour the train made its trial 
trip. 

“Isn’t it a ripper?” exclaimed Mr. Burton, 
applying his handkerchief to his brows. “Now 
watch, Ethel. I’m going to pull this lever, and 
switch the train on to the inner line.” 

He pulled the lever, and the train skipped on to 
the carpet ; the engine turned on its side and buzzed 
furiously. 

“Mercy!” said Mrs. Burton. “But I’m sure 
Bobby will love that. He’s always talking of 
accidents.” 

“We’ve been running the train in the wrong di- 
rection,” Mr. Burton explained, as he re-wound the 
engine. “Now then I You’ll see it will go all right 
this time. Watch!” 

The train glided gracefully from one line to 
another. 

“How funny !” said Ethel. 

Jack was going to say something also, when the 
train ran into the buffers. 

“Oh! What do you do now. Jack?” 

“Simply reverse the engine,” he replied a little 
stifHy. 

“Oh — I see. Perhaps I ought to run up and see 
if Bobby is all right.” 

“Good idea. I’ll show you the turntable work- 
ing when you come back.” 


A Present for Bobby 67 

‘‘How lovely!’' 

For some reason only known to himself, Bobby 
woke up on his mother’s entrance. He demanded 
to be taken downstairs to see his daddy. That 
being impossible in the circumstances, Mrs. Burton 
sought to placate him with the offer of a “story,” 
which, after some demur, he accepted. At the end 
of an hour he resumed his slumbers. 

Downstairs Mrs. Burton found her husband still 
enjoying himself. 

After an inquiry regarding Bobby, he said: 
“Now watch how the turntable is worked. You’d 
better understand the whole thing in case the boy 
wants your help at any time when I’m not here. 
Well, first of all, we uncouple the engine — see? 
Then we run it on to the turntable. Then we ap- 
ply the brake^ — so! Then we turn the turntable — 
this way ” 

“But wouldn’t it be just as easy ” 

“I beg your pardon?” ' 

“Oh, nothing. Jack. Please go on explaining.” 

“Well, then we take off the brake — so ! — and the 
engine. ... We take off the brake — so ! . . .” 

There was a pause. Mr. Burton laid himself 
flat on the carpet and carefully examined the engine. 
Next he gently pulled and pushed at one of the 
tiny brass knobs. Then he grunted and said some- 
thing. 


68 


Bobby 


**0h, Jack, how naughty of you 

‘‘Well, dash it all! There’s something wrong 
with the confounded thing. The brake won’t come 
off!” 

Ethel narrowly refrained from saying, “How 
funny!” Instead she said, very sympathetically: 
“How horrid of the stupid thing.” 

Picking up the engine, Mr. Burton rose and 
carried it under the electric light. “Have we any 
tools in the house?” he asked, shortly. 

“Yes, I think so — if Bobby hasn’t ” 

“Oh, never mind. They’d be far too clumsy, 
anyhow.” He laid the engine on the table and 
took out his penknife. 

Presently the blade snapped. There are men in 
the world who would simply have grinned and 
exclaimed, “Tut!” or “Oh, bother!” Mr. Burton 
was not one of them. 

^^Really, Jack!” said his wife. 

“Bah!” said Jack, and opened the other blade. 

At the expiry of fifteen minutes he cast the knife 
from him. 

“Don’t worry, dear,” Mrs. Burton said gently. 
“If I were you, I’d take it back to the shop and ” 

“The shop doesn’t happen to keep open all night, 
and, besides, to-morrow is ” 

“I meant after the holidays, of course.” 

“And what about Bobby in the morning? I 


A Present for Bobby 


69 


can’t give him an engine that won’t go. Didn’t 
you tell me that the poor little chap has been speak- 
ing of nothing else all day ?” 

'‘Y-yes, Jack. But I’m sure he won’t mind the 
engine being broken, if you explain.” 

“The engine is not broken. It’s merely ” 

“Well, he won’t mind if it’s merely ” 

“My dear Ethel,” said Mr. Burton, “do you 
imagine I’ll insult my boy’s intelligence by giving 
him an engine that won’t go?” 

“My good man, if you are going to talk in that 

silly cock-a-doodle fashion, I ” 

“What I mean is that in a boy’s eyes — and a 
man’s, too — the first thing an engine ought to do 
is go. It is not so much the quality of the mechanism 
as its capacity for — er — going, that appeals. This 
engine cost a large sum of money, and I shall most 
certainly take it back to the shop at the earliest 
possible opportunity. Meantime, the question is: 
What am I to do so that Bobby shan’t suffer?” 

Mr. Burton laid the model on the mantelpiece, 
and, as his wife did not reply, continued: “In the 
train this morning, Adolphus Mingay mentioned 
that he had bought an engine for his boy last 
Christmas. I am now going to Mingay to borrow 
that engine until this one is repaired.” 

“To-night?” exclaimed Mrs. Burton. 

“It’s only ten to ten. If you can calmly look 


70 


Bobby 


forward to Bobby’s disappointment — you might 
know by now how sensitive his feelings are — it’s 
more than I do — I mean, can.” 

‘^But, Jack ” 

“I shan’t be longer than I can help,” said Mr. 
Burton coldly. “Please do not touch the engine 
in my absence; kindly do not disturb the rails.” 

“I’m sure I haven’t the slightest desire to t-touch 
the wretched ” 

But Mr. Burton, having lit a fresh cigarette with 
an unsteady hand, left the room. 

She flung herself into a chair, and wished Christ- 
mas far away. “To think of this happening on 
Christmas Eve!” she sighed. “Things can never 
be the same between us again.” She dashed away 
a tear, rose, and went over to the hearth. “You 
miserable, idiotic little thing, how I hate you!” 
With these words she gave the engine a good hard 
slap. 

4c * * 

Mr. Burton received the utmost sympathy from 
Adolphus Mingay. Unfortunately, as the latter 
explained, his son had smashed his engine only a 
week ago. But why not appeal to Haliburton of 
The Anchorage, whose boy had got one on his last 
birthday? Why not? echoed Mr. Burton, and 
set out hopefully forthwith for The Anchorage, 
about half a mile distant. 


A Present for Bobby 


71 


Haliburton was at home. He did not know his 
visitor very well ; still, he invited him in to partake 
of a whisky and soda. Unluckily, his boy had left 
his engine at his grandmother’s in Yorkshire, and 
she had not yet posted it back. At the same time, 
Haliburton knew for a fact that old Wotherspoon, 
of The Grange, had, at that very moment, a beauty 
of an engine in his possession. Old Wotherspoon 
had been bragging about it in the train that same 
afternoon; had bought it for some nephew or other 
whose people he was dining with on New Year’s 
Day. “He had about a million parcels,” Haliburton 
supplemented, “so he might be disposed to spare 
the engine in the circumstances.” 

Mr. Burton gratefully refused the whisky and 
soda, and set out for The Grange, which was situ- 
ated about half a mile on the other side of his own 
house. He hoped Mr. Wotherspoon might remember 
and recognise him as a fellow traveller who had 
once offered him an evening paper. He trusted that 
Mr. Wotherspoon, bachelor though he was, might 
receive him in the Christmas spirit in which he 
came. At any rate, a desperate man must take 
desperate measures. As he passed his own house 
he regretted his sharpness towards Ethel ; nay, 
more, he felt ashamed of himself, and determined 
to make amends on his return. And then he won- 
dered what he would say to Mr. Wotherspoon. 


72 Bobby 

What will not parental love make a body do ? 

The Grange was approached by way of a longish 
avenue. It was not until he had picked his way 
through near a furlong of darkness, suffering sun- 
dry collisions with unkindly shrubbery, that Mr. 
Burton discovered the house. It was in darkness. 
He remembered having heard, however, that the 
tenant, an inveterate bookworm, had recently caused 
a library to be built from the rear of his dwelling. 
He had not heard, however, that the tenant was 
disposed to deafness. 

Mr. Burton softly blew his nose, stepped lightly 
over the gravel, ascended the three broad steps, 
and pressed the button. He waited patiently for 
three minutes, pressed again, and once more blew 
his nose — loudly this time, as one who has nought 
to conceal. 

He was making up his mind to have a peep at 
the back of the house, when overhead a window 
was harshly thrown up. 

“Who’s there?” 

Mr. Burton cleared his throat. “I’m awfully 
sorry to disturb you at such an unearthly hour, 
Mr. Wother ” 

“What?” 

“I’m awfully sorry ” 

“Who are you?” 

“Burton — The Nest, you know.” 


A Present for Bobby 73 


‘‘What?’’ 

“Burton — The Nest.” 

“Bird on the Nest?” 

“Burton — The Nest,” shouted the owner of the 
name and address. 

“Well, what the dickens do you want. Bird on the 
Nest? You’re a bit early for worms, and I’m not 
coming down to give you soda-water. If it weren’t 
Christmas Eve, I’d give you a bucket of the ordinary 
sort. What do you want?” 

Mr. Burton went down two steps instead of one 
and staggered. 

“Thought so!” said the voice overhead, iron- 
ically. 

Mr. Burton peered up, but could only see the 
vaguest outline of a head and shoulders. 

“I beg you to believe that I’m quite sober and 
respectable,” he said. “You know me by name, 
at any rate — Bur-ton — The Nest.” 

“I hear you. Well, you’re on^ right enough, but 
this is not your nest. And I’m freezing. Good- 
night, Mr. Bird.” 

“Stay! Hear me! Let me explain how I come 
to be here.” 

“Beer! Yes, yes; excellent beverage, but 
should be taken in moderation.” 

“I said, let me explain how I come to be here — 
here, you understand ? In the first place ” 


74 


Bobby 


''No, no; this place is not the inn, my friend. 
And Fm not standing anything to-night.” 

"I have come from Mr. Haliburton ” 

"That explains it. Heaviest drinker in the 
neighbourhood.” 

"I came,” said Mr. Burton with a painful effort, 
"about a model engine.” 

"Muddle— what?” 

"A model engine. My boy ” 

"Come, come; don’t be familiar. Fm not your 
boy, and thank Heaven you’re not mine!” 

Mr. Burton made a last effort. "Believe me,” 
he shouted, "Fm perfectly respec ” 

"All right, Mr. Bird, all right. I believe you!” 
came the soothing reply. "Now good-night, and 
mind the holly bush at the corner.” 

And down went the window. 

* * He 5|s SK 

It was near to half-past eleven when Mr. Burton 
reached home. He felt the smallest man in the 
world. He felt, also, that if Ethel laughed he 
would burst into tears. And he had treated her 
abominably. After all, there were a dozen other 
presents waiting for Bobby. 

He entered the house noiselessly and, without 
removing coat and hat, advanced across the dim 
hall to the dining-room. Perhaps Ethel had gone 


A Present for Bobby 75 

to bed. What wonder if she had, poor injured little 
woman ? 

After considerable hesitation, he turned the han- 
dle softly and looked in. For a moment the light 
dazzled him. Then he saw 

Ethel seated on the floor, watching the train rush 
round and round the circle. 

“Oh, what a scare you gave me, Jack!” she cried 
in her dear old friendly voice. She jumped up. 
“I thought you were never coming. Fve been keep- 
ing the train going for ages to give you a pleasant 
surprise, in case you didn’t get ” 

“But how on earth ” he began. 

She blushed. “Let me whisper. Jack.” 

He hold out his arms. She fell into them. 
Presently 

“You won’t be angry. Jack?” 

“Angry? Never again! Heaven forgive me for 
the way ” 

“Do you really want to know how I made it go 
again?” 

“Rather!” 

«I — I — I knocked it off the mantelpiece — and it 
— it just started.” 


CHAPTER FIVE 


''don’t sniff!” 


"Don’t sniff, Bobby ; blow your nose.” 

"Can’t.” 

"Nonsense!” said his mother. "Do it the way 
daddy does.” She turned to her husband. "Show 
him, Jack.” 

Mr. Burton obligingly deserted his kidney and 
bacon, took out his handkerchief and trumpeted 
loudly and elaborately. 

"Again!” cried Bobby. 

"No, no,” said Mrs. Burton. "Daddy has to 
hurry for his train. Do it yourself now.” 

"Can’t,” said Bobby and sniffed. 

"If you can’t learn to blow your nose properly,” 
his mother informed him solemnly, "you’ll never 
grow to be a man like daddy.” 

"Don’t want to be a man.” 

"I’m afraid,” Mr. Burton mildly put in, "he’s 
in for a cold.” 

"All the more reason why he should blow his 
nose,” replied his wife. "Come now, Bobby; do 
as I bid you. Blow your nose at once.” 

"Can’t.” 


76 


^Don^t Sniff r 


77 


‘'Why can’t you?” 

“Got no hanky to blow it with.” 

Mrs. Burton put down the toast she had been 
conveying to her mouth. “No hanky! Why, I 
gave you a hanky myself, just before we came 
downstairs, ten minutes ago. Where is it ?” 

“Don’t know.” 

“Well, find it at once, and blow your nose, and 
finish your porridge.” 

“Don’t want porridge. It’s far too slimy.” 

“Hush, Bobby! What a way to speak of the 
good food that daddy works so hard to get.” 

Bobby turned to his father. “Please don’t 
work hard for any more porridge,” he said kindly, 
“ ’cause it makes me sick.” 

“Bobby!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton. Then to her 
husband in an undertone: “I wish you wouldn’t 
laugh. Jack.” 

Mr. Burton looked grave at once. “You must 
try to like your porridge, Bobby. It’ll make you 
big and strong and — er — so forth.” 

“Don’t want to be so forth,” said Bobby, and 
sniffed. 

“Didn’t I tell you to get your hanky?” his mother 
said, striving with her temper. 

“Where?” 

“Try under the table, old chap,” his father sug- 
gested. 


78 


Bobby 


Bobby descended and reappeared presently with 
the missing attribute of gentility. He was endea- 
vouring to stuff it into his little pocket and was 
sniffing freely. 

“But you haven’t blown your nose yet,” Mrs. 
Burton remarked patiently. 

“Oh, I forgot.” He applied the cotton to his 
nose and produced a gentle squeak. 

“That’s not blowing your nose properly,” she 
said. 

“It’s as loud as you do it. . . . Please may I 
have some toast and jam, mother?” 

“You may,” Mrs. Burton returned, rather stiffly, 
“though you don’t deserve it. And remember, 
Bobby, if you lose your hanky again, you shall not 
be allowed to see your daddy’s aunt, who is coming 
this afternoon. Now there’s your toast, and let 
me see what a good boy you can be.” 

“Yes, mother. Which aunt?” 

“Aunt Jessica.” 

“Don’t want to see Aunt Jessica. I hate her!” 
He stuffed a goodly mass of toast and jam into his 
mouth. 

“Bobby!” 

Mr. Burton concealed some amusement behind his 
napkin. “Why do you hate my Aunt Jessica, 
Bobby?” 

“She’s always saying dont” 


^^Don^t Sniff r 


79 


“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” said Mrs. 
Burton severely. 

“ ’Tisn’t full. It could hold heaps more,” replied 
Bobby calmly, puffing out a few crumbs as he spoke. 

“Really, you are too horrid for words!” 

“Why, mother?” asked Bobby, fixing clear hon- 
est eyes on his parent. 

“At any rate, you must not hate your daddy’s 
Aunt Jessica.” 

“Why? She says don't far oftener than you, and 
she’s just an old cross-patch.” 

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Burton, rising, “that’s be- 
cause she has no little boy.” 

“I suppose no little boy would have her.” 

“Be quiet, Bobby I” cried Mrs. Burton. 

“Well, why has she no little boy?” 

“Now you’re sniffing again. Use your hanky.” 

“All right, mother,” replied Bobby, obeying, and 
then allowing the handkerchief to drop under the 
table. “But why has she no little boy?” he inquired 
of his father. 

Mr. Burton was lighting a cigarette. “Well, — 
er — my Aunt Jessica happens to be a maiden lady, 
you know; and maiden ladies don’t have little 
boys.” 

“I suppose they have little girls sometimes ” 

“Jack,” said Mrs. Burton hurriedly, “I wish you 
would bring me home a — a stamp to-night.” 


8o 


Bobby 


stamp !'’ 

‘'Oh, well, I daresay I can get one at the local 
post-office.” 

“Still,” said Mr. Burton, his amazement giving 
place to amusement, “in case the local post-office 
is out of stamps, I had better bring one home. 
Would you like the quality at two for twopence or 
three for threepence, dear?” 

“Don’t be so silly,” said Mrs. Burton, a little 
pettishly. “It was necessary to change the sub- 
ject.” 

“And I thought I was backing you up nicely,” 
he returned good-humouredly. “Well, Bobby, I 
must be off — to work for more porridge and so 
forth. Come here and give me a bear hug.” 

Bobby having embraced his father in hearty 
fashion, sniffed and said: “Daddy, if Aunt Jessica 
had two little girls, would she be a made lady then?” 

“Don’t sniff. Blow your nose,” commanded his 
mother, while his father incontinently fled. 

:|e :|e :ic :je 

It was but natural that Mrs. Burton should want 
her son to appear at his best before his father’s 
aunt, yet only a mother of her indomitable and 
illogical optimism could have hoped that he would. 
While she arrayed him in his white sailor suit she 
earnestly coached him as to his behaviour in the 




^^Don^t Sniff r 


8i 


drawing-room. Further, although the sniffing had 
almost ceased, she determined to make sure of his 
having a hanky ready in case of emergency, and to 
that end she placed one in each of his three pockets. 
To this, as well as to her monitions, Bobby sub- 
mitted with the best grace in the world, saying ‘‘Yes, 
mother” to everything and promising to “blow 
hard” on the slightest nasal provocation. 

“You see, dear,” she said in conclusion, “I 
want you to be nice to Aunt Jessica, because she is 
really very kind when you know her properly, and 
she hasn’t got any little — I mean she’d be very fond 
of you if you showed her what a good boy you could 
be. You understand?” 

“Yes, mother. Shall I get a cake with pink 
icing?” 

“If you eat lots of bread and butter first. Will 
you ?” 

“Yes, mother,” he replied, eyeing the dressing- 
table. “May I have some hairpins to play with?” 

Mrs. Burton assented, deeming that he could not 
make a mess of himself with hairpins, and proceeded 
to adorn herself for the reception of her visitor, 
whom she secretly considered an “awful nuisance.” 
Nevertheless she was feeling fairly cheerful and not 
a little proud of Bobby, who looked a “perfect 
darling” in his white sailor suit. 

Ten minutes passed away in peaceful silence. 


82 


Bobby 


‘'What are you doing, Bobby?” she asked pleas- 
antly, putting a finishing touch to her hair. 

“Nothing.” The voice came from the wash- 
stand. 

How often does childhood give itself away in the 
word “nothing!” Urged by a horrid dread, Mrs. 
Burton flew across the room, stopped short, and 
shrieked. 

Having tired of sticking hairpins in the soap, 
Bobby had taken to puncturing a tube of pink tooth- 
paste. He was wiping his hand on his jumper. 

The maid knocked at the door and announced the 
arrival of Miss Burton. 

It took some time to forgive the sin, a little longer 
to dry the tears, a little longer still to exchange the 
white sailor suit for the less picturesque blue one. 
It says something for Mrs. Burton’s presence of 
mind that she remembered to transfer the hankies. 

“I’ll be fearful good now,” whispered Bobby, as 
they went downstairs at last. 

“Yes, dearie,” his mother answered softly, hope 
springing as usual. “But don’t forget to sniff 
when you want to blow your nose,” she added ab- 
sently. 

Fortunately Bobby was too much pre-occupied 
with his virtuous resolutions to notice the slip. 

* jk 

In appearance as well as in manner. Miss Jessica 


“Don’t Sniff!” 


83 


Burton was a somewhat stately person. People 
found it difficult to make her unbend; or, perhaps 
— which is not quite the same thing — the difficulty 
was with herself. She frankly objected to youth, 
and indulged an excessive veneration for her 
ancestors (without knowing much about them 
beyond their names), also a blind admiration for all 
tangible relics pertaining to them. 

She greeted Mrs. Burton with condescension and 
vouchsafed Bobby a cold, formal ‘‘how do you do?” 

Bobby refused to be crushed. He remembered 
his promise to be nice. 

“Quite well, thank you, and how are you?” he 
said agreeably. “Our cat has got kittens. Have 
you got any?” 

“Bobby,” said his mother in the voice she never 
used outside of the drawing-room, “go and sit on 
the window seat, like a good boy.” 

Bobby obeyed at once. Probably he felt he had 
done his duty so far as Aunt Jessica was concerned. 

“Would you like the blinds up, mother?” he in- 
quired solicitously. 

There were five, tall, narrow windows, each fitted 
with a spring blind that flew up to its limit with 
the report of a pistol shot — a temptation and delight 
to any human boy. 

“No, dear,” Mrs. Burton replied, very firmly. 

“Why, mother?” 


84 


Bobby 


‘‘Really, Ethel,*' the visitor was saying, indicating 
a quaint old cup and saucer, which, with sundry 
Japanese trifles, adorned a modern Sheraton table, 
“I am astonished to see John’s great-grandmother’s 
treasures so unprotected. You must get John to 
provide you with a cabinet.” She persisted in call- 
ing her nephew “John,” though everybody who 
knew him fairly well called him “Jack.” 

Mrs. Burton murmured something to the effect 
that her husband was “thinking” of buying a cabi- 
net. 

“But when I was here last, six months ago,” 
Miss Burton pursued, with an Inland Revenue 
glint in her eyes, “you had a pair of cups and 
saucers, once the property of John’s great-grand- 
mother.” 

“Oh !” murmured the hostess, obviously unhappy. 
“Yes,” she admitted, after a slight pause, “I be- 
lieve we had — ^but — er ” 

Bobby, who hated to see his mother look unhappy, 
took a good grip of the cushion of the window seat. 
“I broked it,” he said, “and mother wasn’t very 
angry.” 

Miss Burton groaned. “To think that a mere 
child should be permitted to cause such irreparable 
damage!” she said bitterly. 

Just then the maid brought in tea. The meal 
that followed was as interesting, in every sense, 


^^Don^t Sniff r 


85 


as such polite performances usually are. The num- 
ber of persons per diem who partake of afternoon 
tea in drawing-rooms, without having any desire to 
do so, must be extremely large. 

Bobby ate bread and butter in stolid fashion and 
fixed his eye on the cake with pink icing — there was 
only one of its sort. His aunt kept on saying things 
she thought she meant, and his mother kept on 
saying things she knew she didn't. Thus far Mrs. 
Burton was not disappointed in her son’s behaviour. 
Possibly she became too confident. For at last, 
in a carefully careless tone of voice she said : 

"‘Bobby, dear, will you hand the cakes to Aunt 
Jessica ?” 

With alacrity Bobby rose — or rather slid — 
from his seat, grasped the plate and carried it with 
wreathed smiles to his distant relative. 

“Will you have a cake, Annt Jessica?” he en- 
quired in his best manner. 

Aunt Jessica murmured “H’m!” — hesitated, and 
decided on the cake with pink icing. 

“Mine !” howled Bobby, and dropped the dish. 

“Really!” exclaimed Miss Burton, who began 
a great many of her sentences with that word — why, 
goodness only knows — “really! what an extraordi- 
nary child!” And proceeded to eat the cake with 
pink icing. 

It is a dreadful moment when a mother finds she 


86 


Bobby 


must try to '^explain things away” to her child. 
And it is doubtful whether she ever succeeds in 
doing so. 

The true reason why the maid got her wages 
raised at the beginning of the following month was 
not because she had rendered herself indispensable 
(as she unfortunately imagined), but simply because 
on that afternoon she knocked at the drawing-room 
door at the right moment. 

‘Tlease, m’m, the plumber have came to look at 
the cistering,” announced the maid who, to be 
just, was more nervous than illiterate, ‘‘and he says 
as he won’t believe it leaks, m’m, unless you witness 
against him.” 

At the word “plumber” Bobby’s tears stopped. 

“I’ll go, mother,” he said valiantly. 

“No,” said his mother, quite unkindly for her. 
“The plumber isn’t going to do anything to-day. 
Just stay with Aunt Jessica until I come back.” 
Apologizing to the visitor, she left the room. 

Bobby’s tears very nearly flowed afresh. To keep 
them from flowing he curled himself up most tightly 
on the window seat and took a good grip of the tas- 
sel of one of the blinds. 

Without the slightest emotion Aunt Jessica 
finished her tea and the cake with the pink icing. 
Then she rose, and taking the quaint cup and saucer 
in her hands, proceeded to examine them with sighs 


^^Don^t Sniff r 87 

of regretful admiration. She uttered so many 
sighs that Bobby, forgetting his double grievance, 
turned and stared at her. At the same instant he 
let go the tassel, and the blind flew up with a star- 
tling crack. 

‘‘Ohr 

From the hands of Aunt Jessica the quaint cup 
fell — and broke into five pieces. 

“You naughty boy!” 

“It wasn’t me.” 

Bobby expected an angry retort, but it did not 
come. To his amazement Aunt Jessica went down 
on her knees on the carpet. To his horror he saw 
tears coming out of her eyes and running down — 
no, sticking on — her cheeks. She picked up the 
pieces and gazed at them so sadly. . . . Bobby felt 
a queer lump in his throat. . . . She did not move. 

Presently Bobby slid from the window seat. He 
approached her slowly, doubtfully, even cautiously 
— but he had to approach her. 

“Aunt Jessica,” he ventured. 

“No, no; it really wasn’t your fault,” she said, 
almost sulkily. 

He retired a couple of steps and came forward 
again. 

“Never mind. Aunt Jessica,” he whispered; “I’m 
sure you won’t get beans.” 

Perhaps she did not hear him. 


88 Bobby 

‘‘Aunt Jessica ... are you ’fraid?’’ 

No answer. 

“I suppose you are . . . / was! . . . But don’t 
be ’fraid.” 

A queer, half stifled sound came from the woman. 

“Aunt Jessica ... if you like . . . you can tell 
mother ... I broked it . . . only I wish you 
hadn’t . . . eaten my pink cake ...” 

Miss Burton let the pieces of the quaint cup fall 
back to the floor. “Boy,” she said huskily, “come 
here — here — close to me.” 

Bobby’s mother returned to find her son being 
embraced. She could not understand it at all, es- 
pecially as Bobby was saying gently, yet admon- 
ishingly : 

“Don’t sniff. Aunt Jessica; blow your nose — I’ve 
three hankies.” 


CHAPTER SIX BOBBY REDEEMS HIMSELF 


On her way to the front door Mrs. Burton paused 
to peep into the nursery. She had meant to do so 
unobserved, but Bobby, without losing interest in 
his railway train — not the original one — was at 
once aware of her presence. 

‘‘Why have you got on your best hat?*' he de- 
manded. 

Kate, the youthful housemaid who, seated by the 
fire, had been endeavouring to knit, read, and pre- 
tend she was a signal-box, all at one and the same 
time, let out a little quack and turned red. 

Mrs. Burton laughed also, though she, too, 
coloured, for the maid had been in her service only 
a fortnight, and one must preserve one’s dignity — 
as long as possible. ‘‘I am going to see Mrs. 
Marshall this afternoon, Bobby,” she replied in a 
tone intended to suggest that there was no con- 
nection between Mrs. Marshall and the best hat. 
''Wouldn’t you like me to bring her little Gladys 
back with me to tea?” 

"I’d rather you brought me a meringue,” said 
Bobby, replacing a passenger, a tiny vulcanite frog, 
89 


90 Bobby 

that had fallen from the train. ‘‘One with pink 
cream.” 

Kate suppressed the quack this time, but quaked 
violently. 

“Fm afraid you can’t have a meringue, dear,” 
said the mother. “The last meringue you had gave 
you horrid spots, you know.” 

“It was porridge gave me the spots.” 

“Nonsense, Bobby; I know best.” 

“You don’t take porridge, but you eat meringues, 
and you don’t get spots.” 

Kate bent over her knitting at the risk of blinding 
herself. 

“How would you like,” said Mrs. Burton steadily, 
“a nice sponge cake ?” 

No answer other than a slight sniff. 

“With icing on it, Bobby?” 

“Now you’ve gone and made the train late in 
starting! . . . I’ll take a sponge cake with heaps 
of icing; but I don’t want that silly kid Gladys.” 

“Really, Bobby, I cannot allow you to talk like 
that of Gladys. She’s a dear, sweet little girl ” 

''Poopr cried Bobby, a steam- whistle for the 

moment. Then “She’s simply rotten. Look 

out! The train’s going to start.” 

“Bobby!” cried Mrs. Burton aghast, while Kate 
incontinently bit some stocking. “Who taught you 
that word?” 


Bobby Redeems Himself 91 


‘‘Daddy.” 

Mrs. Burton restrained herself. She advanced 
into the room. “Kate,” she said, “go and ask Jane 
if the baker has sent the fish.” 

Her plump form shuddering, Kate rose and fled, 
leaving a trail of worsted behind her. 

“Mother!” shrieked Bobby in a voice of such 
agony that all was forgotten save his physical wel- 
fare. 

“My darling,” cried Mrs. Burton, “what is it?” 

“You’ve gone and busted everything! How can 
a train go right without a signal-box?” 

“Have I trod on it ?” She gazed helplessly round 
her skirts. 

“Kate was the signal-box.” 

After a short pause Mrs. Burton said rather cold- 
ly : “Kate will be back presently, but I shall forbid 
her to be anything unless you promise never to use 
that horrid word again.” 

“All right, mother. . . . What word?” 

“The word you said about little Gladys.” 

“I only said she was rotten.” 

“Well, you ought not to say such a dreadful 
thing ” 

“Daddy says it often.” 

“Daddy does not say it about people. Besides 
daddy is a man, and you are just a little boy. When 
you are a man and go to business ” 


92 Bobby 

“rm not going to go to business. Business is 
rotten — daddy says so often — I’m going to drive an 
engine, and have a real signal-box — not one that 
giggles and runs away.” 

“That will do, Bobby. Now try to be good while 
I am out. I’m sure you would love to have Gladys 
to play with you.” 

“No, I wouldn’t. She’s no use. She can’t do 
anything except sit with a stuffy old doll.” 

“Come, Bobby; her dolls are always beautiful.” 
Mrs. Burton thought for one moment when she 
ought to have thought for several. She said 

“Suppose Gladys brought all her dolls, then you 
could pretend they were passengers. Wouldn’t that 
be splendid?” 

“I don’t think!” 

“Where did you learn to say that ?” 

“At school. How could her big fat dolls get 
into my neat carriages ?” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Burton, quite pettishly, it 
must be admitted, “you needn’t be so cross about 
it.” 

Bobby regarded her more with sorrow than with 
anger. . . . “I’m not cross, mother,” he said 
gravely, “but sometimes you do say such stupid 
things about my train. And I can’t be bothered with 
Gladys. I’d like Leslie Henderson, or Billy Griffin, 
or ” 


Bobby Redeems Himself 


93 


''Leslie and Billy are perhaps going to take 
measles, so you can’t possibly have them to tea.” 

"Then I don’t want anyone.” 

"But, Bobby, dear” — she was her gentle self 
once more — ^"suppose I want you to have Gladys to 
tea.” 

Bobby fingering his engine, considered. "Oh, 
well,” he said at last, in the tone of one making 
concession, "I’ll have her — if you’ll bring a me- 
ringue — with pink cream.” 

Mrs. Burton shook her head, and smiled in spite 
of herself. "I cannot allow you to make conditions, 
Bobby,” she said bravely; then weakly: "I’ll see 
if the baker has any meringues. Now be a good 
boy till I come back.” She stooped and kissed the 
ear he presented to her. 

She had reached the door when he looked up. 
"Mother!” 

"Yes, Bobby.” 

"You’d better go to the baker’s first.” 

sjs J|S 

Gladys was a beautiful but exceedingly serious 
child whose lingerie was at once the envy and 
despair of all the mammas of little girls in the 
neighbourhood. These mammas were given to 
estimating the laundry bill of Mrs. Marshall, and 
were unanimously of the opinion that no matter how 


94 


Bobby 


rich one was, it was both wicked and absurd to 
clothe one’s child so expensively, adding a rider to 
the effect that this child’s frocks were too ridicu- 
lously short for anything. Mrs. Burton, however, 
not being the mother of a little girl, had no feelings 
in the matter save those of admiration. 

She brought Gladys home to tea, also a couple 
of twopenny meringues. The cream therein was 
not pink, but as there was slightly more of it 
than Bobby had anticipated, her apology was not 
required. 

Immediately before they sat down to tea Mrs. 
Burton found an opportunity of whispering to her 
son: ‘‘Now, Bobby, dear, watch how beautifully 
Gladys behaves, and try to follow her example. 
Let her see that you know what good manners are 
just as well as she does. Will you try?” 

Bobby nodded. On the whole, like the majority 
of little boys, he did want to please his mother ; but 
unlike the majority of little girls, he did not nearly 
always remember in time. 

Certainly Gladys was an example to follow. She 
ate and drank most daintily, though heartily, held 
herself with ladylike composure, passed things to 
the others with prim courtesy, and never spoke 
until she had assured herself by several swallows 
that her mouth was quite empty. Her conversation 
w?s unobtrusive yet ready, reminiscent, perhaps. 


Bobby Redeems Himself 95 

of the parlour rather than the nursery, and invari- 
ably on pleasing subjects. 

‘‘Christmas will soon be upon us,” she remarked, 
dividing a half-slice of bread and butter with method 
and precision. 

“Yes, indeed, dear,” replied Mrs. Burton, who 
thought her “quaint.” “Only a week now. It’s 
jolly, isn’t it?” 

“I’m going to have a party,” Bobby intimated, 
his mouth only half full. 

Miss Gladys turned her eyes upon him. “Are 
you?” she said. “I’m afraid there will not be 
many parties this season owing to the measles.” 

“I don’t care. I’m going to have a party on 
Christmas Eve.” 

“And Bobby hopes you will be able to come, 
Gladys,” said Mrs. Burton, who had not heard of 
the party until now. 

Bobby managed to check an “I don’t!” at his 
very lips, but he gave his mother a look of reproach 
which she was fortunate enough to miss. 

“Thank you, I shall be very pleased,” said 
Gladys calmly. “May I trouble you for the bread 
and butter, Bobby?” 

Bobby pushed over the plate. “Have some jam, 
too,” he said as one who bears no grudge. 

“Thank you, but I never take jam before my 
fourth piece of bread, and not always then.” 


96 


Bobby 


‘‘Oh, crumbs ! I shouldn’t like to be you I” 

“Bobby!” his mother murmured warningly, 
“don’t you think it is splendid of Gladys not to 
take jam before her fourth piece? I think I shall 
make it a rule that you do the same.” 

“I don’t know where she puts all the bread and 
butter,” he said, whereat Miss Gladys blushed and 
for the first time evinced signs of confusion. 

“Hush, you rude boy!” whispered Mrs. Burton, 
trying not to giggle and to appear shocked simul- 
taneously. “I expect that is why you always look 
so well, Gladys, dear,” she said to the little guest. 

“I expect that’s why her legs are so fat,” Bobby 
remarked carelessly. “Mother, I’m ready for my 
meringue.” 

“They aren’t !” cried Gladys, quite childishly. 

“They are!” 

“Bobby!” 

“Well, aren’t they, mother? And her stockings 
are full of holes.” 

“They’re openwork !” Gladys almost shrieked. 

'Bobbyr 

Bobby was astonished. What was all the excite- 
ment about? “Oh, are they?” he said pleasantly, 
adding: “I like fat legs better than skinny ones.” 

The admission failed to appease Miss Gladys, 
entirely, at any rate. She gave him a haughty 
glance and returned to her bread and butter. 


Bobby Redeems Himself 97 

‘‘I’ll take my meringue now, mother,” said Bobby, 
putting forth his hand. x 

Mrs. Burton was in time to save the milk jug 
from turning over. “No, Bobby; you cannot have 
a meringue at present.” 

“Why not, mother?” 

“Because Gladys is still at bread and butter.” 

Bobby turned to his guest. “I say, are you 
nearly finished, Gladys?” he asked, not in the least 
offensively. 

“Mamma does not like me to bolt my food,” she 
replied placidly. “If you eat it too quickly, you 
don’t get the good of it.” 

“Quite right,” said Mrs. Burton. “You hear 
what Gladys says, Bobby?” 

“I wish she’d hurry up,” he said under his 
breath. 

Miss Gladys helped herself to another half-slice, 
and the boy groaned. He waited for her every bite 
and watched her slow deliberate mastication in 
silence; but he wriggled on his seat and cast occa- 
sional imploring glances at his mother. Mrs. Bur- 
ton could have wriggled, too; only the belief that 
all this was good for her son prevailed against her 
maternal sympathies. 

But, “even the weariest river winds somewhere 
safe to sea,” and the moment at last arrived when 
Miss Gladys was done with bread and butter. 


98 


Bobby 


“Now/’ said Mrs. Burton very cheerfully, for it 
seemed to her that her Bobby had come through 
the ordeal fairly well, “now, Gladys, you must try 
one of Bobby’s favourite meringues. He insisted 
on having them when he knew you were coming.” 
(Which was true enough!) 

The littte girl looked at the meringues, shook her 
pretty fair head, and said sadly: “No, thank you.” 

A gasp came from Bobby, an exclamation from 
his mother. 

“What?” cried she. “Don’t you like meringues, 
dear?” 

“Yes; but mamma does not like me to have 
them. They” — in a tone of finality — “give me a 
pain.” 

There was a short silence. Then 

“Hooray,” yelled Bobby. “Bags me both !” And 
out shot his hands. 

And over went the milk- jug; and down went the 
jam-dish, never to rise again, for its solitary leg 
was broken. And a meringue skipped across the 
table and burst on the girl’s dainty frock. . . . 

If you are a mother, kind reader, you will know 
what followed; if you are not, pray imagine it. 
Some things are better not dwelt upon. The 
sorrows of little people are every bit as real as their 
joys. 


Bobby Redeems Himself 99 

That night Mr. and Mrs. Burton had a long talk 
about Bobby. Not an unusual thing for Mr. and 
Mrs. Burton to have ; but it differed from previous 
talks in that it was accompanied by no smiles — on 
Mrs. Burton's part, at any rate. 

“Tm sure I can’t think where Bobby gets his 
table manners,” she sighed. 

‘Tf you’ve gone over all your ancestors, there’s 
nothing for it but to blame it on Adam,” he said, 
in an effort to lift the gloom. 

'‘Oh, Jack, I do think you might be serious.” 

“He’s just like other boys at table, Ethel. By 
the way, talking of other boys, both Henderson’s 
and Griffin’s youngsters are down with measles.” 

“I expected that would happen. Every child 
in the place seems to have got it now, and Bobby 
had it all by himself last year, except for Gladys 
Marshall. I’m afraid she is the only child who can. 
come to his party on Christmas Eve.” 

“Hard lines on Bobby! But do you think he 
wants her? Won’t she remind him of his disgrace 
this evening?” 

“He ought to want her. Jack. Anyway, I’ve 
invited her. I’m confident that her beautiful man- 
ners will yet have their effect on Bobby. Be- 
sides ” Mrs. Burton halted. 

“Yes?” said her husband encouragingly. 

“You — you won’t laugh? . . . Well, I want 


lOO 


Bobby 


to give Bobby a chance of redeeming himself before 
Gladys and — her mother. You see, Mrs. Marshall 
is sure to have heard all about it.’’ 

‘‘H’m! That’s taking a bit of a risk, isn’t it, 
especially on Christmas Eve? It doesn’t seem ex- 
actly the time to expect a kiddie to mind his p’s and 
q’s. However, I suppose you know best.” 

^'Don’t be afraid that I shall do anything to 
spoil his happiness,” Mrs. Burton said in a low 
voice. ‘T — I’m simply going to appeal to his 
feelings — ^his feelings for you and me. Jack, and I 
want you to back me up. If you do, I know I shall 
succeed.” 

‘‘Right !” said he, and they talked on for another 
half-hour, at the end of which he yawned involun- 
tarily. 

“There’s only one more thing. Jack,” she said 
gently. “Would you mind trying not to say ‘rot- 
ten’ in his hearing?” He looked regretful, and she 
continued hastily: “I know it’s a fearfully useful 
word when you are in business, but when Bobby 
said it to-day ” 

“What did he call ‘rotten’?” 

“Gladys.” 

Mr. Burton’s expression may or may not have 
represented horror; he found it necessary to blow 
his nose just then. 

“And to-day,” his wife went on, “he used that 


Bobby Redeems Himself loi 

ghastly phrase : ‘I don’t think/ and told me he had 
learnt it at school.” 

*‘Not so bad for his first two weeks under Miss 
Privet,” remarked Mr. Burton, permitting himself 
to smile. “Ah, well, Ethel, if I were you I shouldn’t 
worry too much over these things.” 

Mrs. Burton shook her head. “I want Bobby 
to be a little gentleman, and I shan’t be happy until 
he redeems himself before Gladys Marshall.” 

“And Mrs. Marshall,” said Mr. Burton — to him- 
self. Then he got up and kissed his wife, and told 
her she ought to be proud of Bobby — which last 
was not really necessary. 

♦ * 

During the week that followed Bobby received 
much tender instruction as to how he might make 
a happy Christmas for his parents. It seemed to 
him that, on the whole, his parents were going to be 
easily pleased. Only one thing asked by his mother 
did he hesitate to promise to perform; but her 
pleading won in the end — at the eleventh hour, in- 
deed, for it was the night before Christmas Eve, and 
he was in bed. 

“My own dear boy!” she murmured grate- 
fully as she prepared to hear him repeat his little 
prayer. 

To her dismay he refused to begin. 


102 


Bobby 


‘'Bobby, surely it isn’t because of what Fve asked 
you to do and what you’ve promised me?” 

The young head on the pillow waggled a decided 
negative. It was not going to trouble about prom- 
ises before the time for their performance. For 
the moment it had another kind of worry. 

"Then why won’t you say your prayer, dear?” 
She remembered now that of late he had been less 
ready with his^ simple devotions than she could have 
desired. "Come, tell mother.” 

"I’m too big,” he mumbled at last. 

"Oh, Bobby! No one is too big to say their 
prayers.” 

There was a long silence until, kissing his hair, 
she whispered : "Darling, tell mother.” 

It came with a rush: "I won’t be a lamb any 
more. If I’ve got to be a beast. I’ll be a bull 1” 

^ ^ He ^ 

The Christmas Eve party, limited alas! to the 
two children and their parents, was nearly over. 
Mrs. Burton was feeling almost glad she had invited 
the elder Marshalls to be present, and she hoped to 
be wholly glad ere many minutes more had gone. 

With comparatively few promptings Bobby had 
thus far avoided doing anything to disgrace himself 
or his parents. He had been well coached by his 
mother, more thoroughly than his father could have 


Bobby Redeems Himself 103 

dreamed. His behaviour at tea had been satis- 
factory: no eye had observed him drop that slice 
of bread and butter under the table, presumably 
in order to leave room for better things. He had 
played the games that Gladys wanted, and while 
most of these games were of rather brief duration, 
there was no evidence that he had brought them 
to a premature close. He had conveyed his railway 
train into the drawing-room and had been patient 
in his explanations to Gladys; it was not his fault 
that she comprehended nothing, and cared as much. 
He had even endeavoured to exhibit interest in her 
beloved doll; and who shall blame him because 
instead of respectfully inquiring regarding its health 
he bluntly asked its price? 

Now there was a lull before the final event of the 
evening — the Christmas tree, still concealed by cur- 
tains drawn across the bay window, its branches 
hung with gifts destined for absent as well as pres- 
ent friends, for Bobby had insisted that certain 
measle-stricken ones should be remembered. 

Bobby sat in the midst of his railway circle, 
contented to be left to himself for a little while. 
Miss Gladys was restless apparently. She moved 
from one chair to another, fondling her doll and 
listening, perhaps, to the conversation of the grown- 
ups. Her journeys usually took her across the room, 
and she broke them with a pause in the centre, 


104 


Bobby 


under the gasalier. There, a lovely little figure in 
her finery, she stood looking down at her doll as 
if nothing else mattered, yet glancing from the cor- 
ner of her eye at Bobby. 

From the gasalier depended a bunch of mistle- 
toe. 

The clock chimed eight while she was there. 

“Tree o’clock!’' cried Mr. Burton gaily, and 
jumped up. 

“One moment. Jack,” murmured his wife, rising 
also. You would have guessed she was nervous. 

She went over to her son and lowered her lips 
to his ear. 

“Must I, mother?” he whispered, plainly dis- 
mayed. 

Perhaps the others heard tiny fragments of her 
reply : “ . . . us happy . . . nice . . . gentle.” 
She went back to her seat and tried to restart the 
conversation. 

But silence fell in spite of her. 

For a little space Bobby continued to stare at his 
engine. Then he got laboriously to his feet. His 
eyes were defiant, but his mouth could not be called 
firm. He walked slowly up to Gladys, hesitated for 
a breath, then suddenly but not untenderly took 
her face between his hands and kissed her. 

The push she gave him was not needed. He 
was already leaving her. 


Bobby Redeems Himself 105 

‘'Bravo !” exclaimed stout and hearty Mr. Mar- 
shall. “Done like a gentleman !” 

“Indeed, yes. Boys are usually so rough,” 
laughed Mrs. Marshall, holding out her hand to 
her little girl, who did not seem to know where to go. 

And Bobby’s mother was satisfied though her 
eyes were wet. 

And Bobby’s father tore aside the curtain with 
a bang, as Bobby surreptitiously drew the back of 
his hand across his mouth. 

He * * * * 

An hour later Mrs. Burton came to her husband 
saying: “Bobby wants to see you before he goes 
to sleep. Jack.” 

“Right !” He ran upstairs. 

Bobby was already snug and drowsy. 

“What is it, old man?” asked his father. 

“I just wanted to know if you were very happy 
now.” 

“Rather!” 

“Then are you much obliged to me?” 

“Obliged to you?” said Mr. Burton, all at sea. 
“Of course I’m tremendously obliged to you, 
Bobby!” 

“All right,” said Bobby contentedly. 

His father waited, then deeming that sleep had 
come, moved from the bed. 


io6 


Bobby 


‘‘Daddy.” 

“Yes, old man?” 

“I don’t need to kiss her again, do I ?” 

“Oh! . . . Certainly not, unless you want to. 
Didn’t you enjoy that part of your Christmas 
Eve?” 

“Secret,” said Bobby, his eyelids drooping. 

Mr. Burton went down on his knees. “I’m lis- 
tening, Bobby. What do you want to tell me ?” 

“ . . . simply rotten,” muttered Bobby, and fell 
asleep. 




CHAPTER SEVEN 

THE JOY OF THE MOMENT 


Bobby and his chum, Leslie, were very busy, 
laying a railway-track in the back garden, when his 
mother called his name from an upper window. 

‘‘What?’' returned Bobby, without altering his 
squatting position. 

“You must stop now, dear; it’s nearly four 
o’clock.” 

“I can’t stop now, mother. We must get the 
line down as far as ” 

“I’m very sorry, but you must really stop at 
once. Come, Bobby!” 

“Why?” 

“Because it’s time to get ready to go to Gladys’s.” 

“I don’t want to go to Gladys’s. I’ve asked 
Leslie to tea.” 

“Listen, Bobby,” said Mrs. Burton. “I shall be 
delighted if Leslie will come to tea another time — 
to-morrow, if he likes — ^but you know you are 
going to Gladys’s this evening, and she expects you 
at four. Now gather up your tools and things. 
Please help him, Leslie. You will come to tea to- 
morrow, won’t you?” 


107 


io8 Bobby 

‘‘All right/’ Leslie mumbled. 

Mrs. Burton reflected that Gladys, in answer to 
a similar invitation, would have replied: “Yes, 
thank you very much”; but the present did not 
seem to be the best time for even the mildest precept 
on manners, and so she said encouragingly : “Bobby, 
you hear that Leslie is coming to-morrow?” 

“Don’t want him to-morrow. At least, I do. 
But I don’t want to go to Gladys’s now. It’s no 
fun in her house. ’Sides, I never said I would go.” 

“/ said you would go, and that is enough,” re- 
torted Mrs. Burton, and inadvertently brought the 
back of her dainty head into sharp contact with 
the window sash. “Be quick ! I can’t wait another 
instant.” 

“All right. I’m coming.” Bobby raised a flushed, 
dejected countenance, and got slowly to his feet. 
“See you to-morrow,” he said sadly to his chum. 

Leslie nodded. “I wouldn’t like to be you,” he 
remarked consolingly, and departed. 

“Bobby, are you going to leave everything lying 
about like that?” cried his mother. 

“You said I was to come in at once,” he sighed. 
“But I’ll pick them up, mother.” 

There was such a pathetic note of resignation in 
his voice that she hurried downstairs and out of 
doors to help him. 

“You know, Bobby,” she said cheerfully, “it 


The Joy of the Moment 


109 


wouldn’t be kind not to go to Gladys’s when she 
expects you — would it now ?” 

“Very well, mother; I’ll try to bear it. You’re 
putting those rails in the wrong box. Have I got 
to change my clothes?” 

“Certainly! You could never think of going to 
see a young lady in your old ” 

“She’s not a young lady; she’s only a rotten 
kid.” 

“Really, Bobby, if I hear you use that ghastly — 
I mean horrid — word again ” 

“I forgot. I s’pose it’ll be a rot — I mean a 
beastly plain tea. She never has any good things, 
’cause they give her pains.” 

“That was not a nice word either. . . . No, you 
must not expect fancy cakes and things, Bobby. 
Gladys has to be very careful. But if you’re good. 
I’ll have something ’specially nice for you and Les- 
lie to-morrow.” 

“It’s always to-morrow.” 

Mrs. Burton ignored this pessimistic statement. 

“You must ask Gladys to show you the wonderful 
doll’s house she got at Christmas.” 

“I expect she’ll show it without being asked. 
She doesn’t care about anything but dolls. It’s 
awful stale playing with her.” 

“Stop whining, Bobby!” cried Mrs. Burton, 
on the verge of losing her temper — ^what wonder? 


no 


Bobby 


‘'You would whine too, if you was me/’ reioined 
her son. 

“You are an exceedingly impertinent boy.” 

“But, mother, you know it’s awful stale.” 

“That will do. Run into the house at once and 
wash yourself.” 

Bobby ran in, but when she joined him, a few 
minutes later, he appeared to have washed nothing 
but his eyes. At any rate, they were the only moist 
bits of him. Perhaps she felt she had not been 
quite just. Little Gladys had the most beautiful 
manners, but she had never proved a congenial 
playmate for Bobby, and Mrs. Burton asked herself 
if she was not risking his afternoon’s happiness for 
the sake of a lesson in deportment, which might 
not have the slightest effect on her son. 

However, the tiff ended as their tiffs invariably 
did. Mrs. Burton dropped upon her knees, Bobby 
gulped and threw his arms round her neck, and they 
cuddled each other for the space of several minutes. 
After which everything looked a great deal more 
bright and hopeful. 

“Perhaps she would like to see my new engine,” 
said Bobby, in a subdued voice, when nearly ready 
for the road. 

“I’m sure she would,” Mrs. Burton replied. 
“Take it with you.” It would be something for 
him to amuse himself with, she reflected, when all 


The Joy of the Moment 


III 


else failed. ^^And you won’t look disappointed if 
there are no good things for tea,” she gently added. 

‘‘I won’t! . . . But — may I look surprised if 
there are ?” 

And, wondrous to relate, there were ! 

*‘Oh, my!” burst from Bobby’s lips, when his 
eyes beheld the tea-table, for right in its centre 
was a plate containing three of his favourite pink 
meringues. 

Gladys, her glance following his, smiled demurely. 
“I told mother you adored them,” she said. 

‘‘But — ^but you aren’t allowed to eat them, are 
you? When you were at our house ” 

“They don’t agree with me,” , she said gravely. 
“But I shan’t mind — very much — seeing you eat 
them.” 

“Well,” said he, “I think you’re awful decent.” 

Gladys had surprised him even more than had the 
sight of the pink meringues. He made up his mind 
to take all the interest he possibly could in her dolls. 
Moreover, he behaved more than usually well 
throughout the meal, and consumed bread and butter 
to please Gladys’s mother until he had almost no 
room for the meringues. 

* * jk * 

“This is my doll’s house,” Gladys informed him, 
the moment they reached the nursery. “Santa 
Claus brought it at Christmas. Isn’t it lovely?” 


II2 


Bobby 


‘‘How did it get down the chimney ?’" Bobby 
inquired. 

Gladys had never thought of that. She thought 
about it now, but could not find a reply to the 
question. 

“Anyway, he brought it,’’ she said at last. A 
cheering thought struck her. “But it isn’t as big 
as Santa Claus, and he gets down chimneys quite 
easily.” 

Bobby had never thought of that. He considered 
and said: 

“I expect Santa Claus has magic that makes the 
chimneys any size he wants them to be.” 

She assented, though she preferred simply to 
accept the fact of Santa’s descent without any 
theories as to how he managed it. So, lest her guest 
should advance further speculations, she made 
haste to direct his attention, which was already 
disposed to wander, to the beauties of her doll’s 
house. 

“It has three rooms and kitchen, Bobby.” 

Bobby nodded. “How do you get in?” 

“I get in this way.” She undid a catch 

“That’s not the door; that’s the front of the 
house!” he exclaimed. 

“But that’s the way to see all the inside of the 
house. You couldn’t see it all through the little 
door.” 


The Joy of the Moment 113 

‘‘No, of course not,” he admitted, but in no very 
satisfied tone of voice. “Where’s the stair?” 

“There’s no stair.” 

“How do the dolls get up and down?” 

Gladys had never thought about that either, but 
it seemed not worth while to think about it. Dolls’ 
houses never had stairs ; at any rate, she had never 
seen one with a stair — which was the same thing to 
her. 

“This is the kitchen, Bobby,” she went on. “See 
the stove, and all the pots and pans, and the tables 
and chairs.” 

“They’re awful neat, Gladys,” he returned with 
some heartiness. But his critical faculty was not 
stayed. “The clock’s just painted on the wall.” 

“Yes; that’s to keep it from falling and getting 
broken, daddy says,” she replied equably. 

For nearly a minute Bobby was dumb. But, 
somehow, the painted clock irritated him into re- 
marking that there wasn’t much fun in having a 
clock that always told the same time. 

“Oh, but it doesn’t !” she brightly corrected him. 
“Sometimes it’s six o’clock in the morning, and 
sometimes six o’clock at night!” She proceeded 
to point out the features of the dining-room, happily 
unconscious of the fact that Bobby’s attention was 
all on the flat above. 

Now, Bobby had not set out to find fault with the 


Bobby 


1 14 

doll’s house; on the contrary, he had started off 
with the desire to praise the house and please the 
owner. But the obvious architectural defects and 
absurdities were really too much for his practical 
little mind. And suddenly he exploded thus : 

‘'Gladys! There’s no bathroom!” 

"What?” cried Gladys, her spirit still wandering 
amid the dining-room furniture. 

"There’s no bathroom.” 

Her beautiful blue eyes looked at him, first with 
mild amazement, then in troubled fashion. A bath- 
room! She had never thought of that! A house — 
even a doll’s house — without a bathroom did seem 
wrong. And her father had never mentioned it. 

"But dolls don’t need a bathroom,” she said 
presently, without any conviction. 

"Don’t dolls ever get washed?” 

"Of course not!” Her native honesty compelled 
her to add: "At least, not my dolls. They are 
much too fine.” Still, she wished there had been a 
bathroom. It was much more important than a 
stair. 

"How would you like never to get washed?” 

"I’d hate it. But dolls are different.” 

"Well, they must need baths frightfully. But, 
of course, they’re not really real,” he said, with no 
unkindly intent. "They’re only pretend real.” 

"They’re not !” Gladys rushed across the 


The Joy of the Moment 115 

nursery to the old sofa, where five dolls, large and 
small, sat in a row. Gathering them all to her 
bosom she hugged them and sobbed: “They are 
real! — really and truly real!” 

Bobby was as embarrassed as any nice-minded 
little boy could be. 

“Say they’re real I” she demanded tearfully. 

“All right,” he compromised, feeling vaguely 
ashamed of himself. 

“Say they don’t need to be washed,” she repeated 
almost cheerfully. 

But here he revolted. “How can I say it when 
they’ve got their clothes on?” 

“I can soon take their clothes off,” she assured 
him. 

“Oh, never mind. I’ll believe you. I expect 
they’re clean enough.” 

Gladys did not seek to rout him utterly. She 
smiled her forgiveness, dried her eyes on the petti- 
coat of the least attractive-looking doll, and rejoined 
him at the doll’s house. 

“This is the drawing-room,” she resumed, as if 
nothing had happened, and Bobby, now a little 
afraid of her, hearkened attentively while she named 
each and every article of furniture. 

But he had his reward. When she had gone over 
the bedroom — he just refrained from saying that 
one bedroom in a house was “awful few” — in the 


ii6 


Bobby 


same methodical fashion as she had gone over the 
other apartments, she paused and sighed heavily. 

‘'Oh, Bobby,” she said, "after all, I do wish 
there was a bathroom.” 

"Do you, Gladys?” A professional light came 
into Bobby's eyes. "I believe,” he said slowly, "if 
I had a few things, I could make you a bathroom. 
I know lots about plumber work.” 

"Oh, could you?” she cried, embracing the dolls. 
"But where would you put it?” 

"In the drawing-room.” 

"Oh, that would never do. What would visitors 
think?” 

"Well, in the bedroom — a part of the bedroom.” 

"Ye^ — es. It wouldn't matter so much there. 

But how would you make it, Bobby?” 

Bobby pushed back his hair and scratched his 
head, as he had once seen an ordinary plumber do. 
"Have you any toys besides dolls?” 

"Dolls aren't toys,” she said quickly. "There 
are heaps of toys in the cupboard.” 

"Is there a box of bricks — thin ones^” 

"Yes.” 

He named other toys. 

"Yes” or "no,” she answered, as the case might 
be. 

In a little while the floor round the doll's house 
was littered. 


The Joy of the Moment 


117 


‘'It's going to be a big job," Bobby remarked, 
breathing heavily. 

Said Gladys, who had returned four of her loved 
ones to the sofa: “Can't I do anything, Bobby?" 

“Yes" — curtly — “you can hand and fetch things, 
but don't talk." 

It was his turn now! 

At the end of twenty interesting minutes, she said 
meekly: “You're fearfully clever, Bobby." 

They did not hear the door open an hour later, 
nor did they notice the two mothers until one of 
them spoke. 

“Bobby, it is time to go." 

“Mother, I can't come just now. I'm too busy." 

“Give them five minutes longer," said the other 
mother, after Gladys, a little tired of it all, yet 
flattered by Bobby's labours on her behalf, had ex- 
plained the situation. 

Jjc * * * * 

“I believe you've left your new engine in Gladys's 
nursery, Bobby," said Mrs. Burton on the way home. 

“It doesn't matter, mother. I'm going along to 
play with Gladys to-morrow." 

“But, my dear boy, you have Leslie coming to- 
morrow." 

“Oh, bother !" said Bobby. 


CHAPTER EIGHT 


REFRESHING FRUITS 


At breakfast on a wet Saturday morning, Mr. 
Burton, who had been kept late at the office all 
the week, said to his son: 

‘‘Well, Bobby, how have you been getting on at 
school?’’ 

“Splendidly,” Bobby replied rather absently, 
being absorbed in a design of railway lines drawn 
upon the table-cloth with a fish-knife. 

“Bobby,” said his mother, “have you forgotten — 
stop that at once! — have you forgotten that I saw 
Miss Privet yesterday afternoon?” 

“No,” he replied, dropping the fish-knife and be- 
ginning to play with the salt. 

“And what did she tell me?” 

“A fib.” 

“Bobby! how dare you?” 

“Well, she said Leslie had got mumps.” 

“Everybody thought he had, until this morning.” 
Mrs. Burton turned to her husband. “Jack, Miss 
Privet says Bobby is extremely backward in his 
tables; he seems to have no grasp of numbers at 
all.” 

ii8 


Refreshing Fruits 


119 

Mr. Burton regarded his son with mock severity. 
‘That is very bad of you, Bobby, after nearly four 
weeks at school ! If a herring and a half cost 

“Jack!” whispered his wife, “for goodness’ sake 
be serious !” 

“Fm awful good at spelling,” Bobby put in, in 
self defence, “and I don’t like herrings.” 

“But if you are not good at arithmetic,” said his 
mother, “you will never be able to go to business 
like daddy.” 

“Don’t want to go to business like daddy,” he 
retorted, upsetting the salt. 

“Quite right, old man,” said his father. “Stick 
to your idea of being an engine-driver.” 

“How often have I told you not to fiddle with the 
cruet?” cried Mrs. Burton. “If you have finished 
your breakfast, take your hands off the table.” 

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” Mr. Burton inter- 
posed. “It looks like being a wet afternoon, so 
I’ll give you a lesson in counting, Bobby. Ethel, 
will you kindly order a dozen oranges ?” 

“Wouldn’t nuts do as well. Jack. I’ve plenty of 
nuts in the house.” 

“Split peas would do as well from a purely edu- 
cational point of view; but they would not be par- 
ticularly refreshing afterwards.” 

“Oranges are so dear just now,” she sighed. 

“So are school fees. Get Jaffas, Ethel. If we 


120 


Bobby 


can’t afford the worst, let us have the best. Now, 
Bobby, I must nip for my train. Remember ! — ^my 
lecture begins at 3 p. m. prompt.” 

‘'Shall I get sucking an orange afterwards — with 
three lumps of sugar, daddy?” 

"You shall ! Mother likes music with meals.” 

"Oh, Jack,” she exclaimed, laughing in spite of 
herself, "how can you expect Bobby to take his 
lessons seriously, if you don’t?” 

"Wait till you see me this afternoon,” said Mr. 
Burton, diving for his boots. 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

Owing to a little attack of drowsiness, it was 
nearer four than three when Mr. Burton declared 
himself ready to begin. Father and son seated 
themselves with the breadth of the table between 
them; from a chair at the window the mother looked 
on. 

"Now, Bobby, attend!” said Mr. Burton, and 
solemnly emptied the bag. "I have here a dozen 
oranges^ — of poor quality, I fear; but we’ll let that 
pass. How many oranges are there in the dozen?” 
He began to set them in a long row. 

"Eleven,” was the prompt reply. 

"Oh, Bobby,” his mother said reproachfully, 
"surely you know better than that.” 

"There’s just eleven,” said Bobby, the least thing 
reluctantly, " ’cause I had one before dinner,” 


Refreshing Fruits 121 

“Bobby is quite right,” said Mr. Burton, glancing 
at his wife. “There are exactly eleven oranges in 
this dozen. But as I wanted twelve, we’ll pretend 
that this is the twelfth.” He placed his tobacco 
pouch at the end of the row. 

“Excuse me. Jack,” Mrs. Burton said mildly, “but 
I should like to know where Bobby ate the orange.” 

“In the garden, when the rain went off for a little 
while,” answered the boy. 

“And what did you do with the skin?” 

“Chucked it over the wall.” 

“Oh, dear!” 

“Why, mother?” 

“That old gentleman is so particular about his 
garden. He’ll be simply mad!” 

“We’ll think about the old gentleman later on,” 
said Mr. Burton. “Remember, Bobby, you must 
never throw things over the wall. It’s so annoying 
having them thrown back again.” Ignoring his 
wife’s reproachful gaze, he continued: “Now 
attend! If I give you one of these oranges, what 
shall I have left?” 

“All but one.” 

“Bobby, don’t be stupid !” — from his mother. 

“Ten,” said Bobby. “That’s an awful lot to 
keep, daddy.” 

“You are forgetting the pouch which is supposed 
to be an orange. How many are ten and one?” 


122 


Bobby 


^‘Eleven.” 

'‘Well, then I should have eleven left. You see?” 

“I see,” replied Bobby, looking very much as 
though he didn’t. 

“Let’s try it another way,” his father said hope- 
fully. “Suppose you take eleven oranges, what 
shall I have left?” 

“The tobacco pouch.” 

At that moment the maid entered with a neat 
little parcel for Mr. Burton. 

“Hullo!” said he, “this looks something nice,” 
and was immediately joined by his wife and son, 
exclaiming, “What can it be?” 

The uncovering of a dainty pink cardboard box 
brought forth expectant smiles and murmurs which, 
however, came to an abrupt conclusion with the 
lifting of the lid. 

The box contained a handful of orange peel, 
rather earthy, and a card bearing these words: 
“Mr. T. Roland Smith would feel obliged by Mr. 
Burton’s refraining from depositing his refuse in 
Mr. Roland Smith’s garden. Sample of refuse re- 
turned herewith.” 

Possibly their son’s presence prevented Mr. and 
Mrs. Burton from saying all they felt just then. 
Still, at such a moment it is hardly in human nature 
to confine oneself to absolutely discreet comments. 

Bobby’s little prayer that night had a new clause 


Refreshing Fruits 


123 


affixed to its familiar conclusion. ‘‘And please/' he 
said drowsily yet fervently, “bless everybody in the 
world — 'cept that old wretch, Mr. Roly Smith." 

His mother was shocked, more so, perhaps, by 
the sincerity of the utterance than by the words 
themselves. “Dear, you must ‘not say such a thing!" 
she cried. 

“It was you called him an old wretch first. You 
said it to daddy. What’s a wretch?" 

“That wasn’t what I meant, dear," she answered 
evasively, feeling ashamed of herself. “I meant 
that we ought not to ask God not to bless anybody, 
even if that person has not been very kind to us. 
You understand, Bobby?" 

“Very well," he said agreeably. “Please, God, 
bless that old wretch, too, and forgive his many sins 
— will that do, mother?" 

“Yes, dear; but we won’t call him an old wretch 
again. You see, he may not have meant to be so 
unkind as he was, and then he is old and all alone, 
and perhaps he doesn’t know much about little boys. 
But we won’t talk about it any more. Daddy has 
written to him to tell him that you won’t throw 
anything nasty into his garden again. Now say 
good-night to mother." 

“Good-night, mother. I won’t throw anything 
into his garden — unless it’s something nice," he 
murmured. “Poor old wretch ... all alone . . . 


124 


Bobby 


doesn’t know any little boys. . . And fell 
asleep. 

In the pleasant sunshine that came with the 
following afternoon Mr. T. Roland Smith strolled 
about his garden, the pride of his later years. It 
was undoubtedly a beautiful garden, and exquisitely 
kept. Mr. T. Roland Smith carried a little book in 
which he noted the slightest faults — for his gar- 
dener’s future attention. He had grown so stout 
that weeding for him was a physical impossibility, 
but he jotted down the location of the minutest 
green intruder as methodically as though it were a 
new island discovered by himself in an uncharted 
ocean. He had halted at the bottom of the garden 
where some wonderful pansies grew, and was re- 
garding them both critically and admiringly. 

In this situation he was discovered by Bobby, 
who came out of doors with the object of enjoying 
an orange after a somewhat heating walk with his 
parents. Bobby preferred to eat his orange in the 
garden, because there he could suck as loudly as he 
liked, in perfect peace. The orange was at his lips 
when he remembered the disagreeable events of the 
previous day. He withdrew the orange and gazed 
curiously at the rotund, clean-shaven person on the 
other side of the wall. All at once it struck him 
that Mr. Roly Smith did look sort of lonesome. 


Refreshing Fruits 125 

Fancy never having anything to do but walk by 
one’s .self in a garden! It must be awful stale! 
Bobby felt a little guilty, then glad that he had 
asked God to bless the poor old wretch, after all; 
then he hoped, rather anxiously, God hadn’t hurried 
away immediately after the first prayer about Mr. 
Roly Smith and before the second. Yet, as he 
watched, it seemed to him that God must have 
hurried away, for the lonesome Mr. Roly Smith be- 
gan to make most unhappy faces. Bobby was not to 
know that the other suffered from rheumatic pains ; 
and he simply made up his mind that to-night he 
would put Mr. Roly Smith before “everybody in 
the world,” which would let God see that he really 
wanted the poor old wretch to be blessed, and no 
mistake. 

But an even happier idea came to Bobby. As 
his young mind conceived it, God received prayers 
while people were going to bed, prepared blessings 
while people slept, and began to serve out blessings 
when people woke up in the morning. And so it 
seemed a long time for Mr. Roly Smith to have to 
wait to be blessed — it was only five o’clock in the 
afternoon — and Bobby wondered if nothing could 
be done at once. And lo! a beautiful plan unfolded 
itself. 

In a little while Bobby crossed the lawn and 
approached the wall. He intended to go quite close 


126 Bobby 

to the wall, but about six feet from it he stopped 
because he could see so little of the old gentleman 
how — only his head and shoulders. 

“Hullo!” said Bobby softly. 

Unfortunately Mr. T. Roland Smith was hard of 
hearing. He continued to regard his pansies. 

“Hullo!” said Bobby again, with more force 
and less confidence. 

The other started. “What?” he demanded in 
a loud quacking voice. 

“Here’s a nice orange for you,” said Bobby, with 
something like a shake in his voice. “C-catch!” 
He threw the orange, became panic-stricken, and 
fled for the house. 

It was not a bad throw — only there had not been 
given sufficient warning for an elderly and heavy 
person. While the hands of Mr. T. Roland Smith 
waved wildly in front of his face, the orange struck 
him on the chest, an inch below his chin. 

His wrath was extreme. His remarks were mainly 
incoherent, but the flying Bobby heard more than 
enough. “Rascal . . . dare to throw . . . filthy 
orange . . . policeman!” The last word entered 
the boy’s ears as he reached the door. Poor Bobby ! 
He rushed into his father’s house, into his mother’s 
arms, and was not sure that he was safe even there. 

Presently Mr. T. Roland Smith, who, by the way, 
had considered Mr. Burton’s recent apology rather 


Refreshing Fruits 


127 


flippant, kicked the orange to the side of the path, 
and then perceived a hole in it from which protruded 
a lump of half -melted sugar. A little later he no- 
ticed the state of his waistcoat. 

3|C Hs Hi ♦ He 

‘‘Jack,’' said Mrs. Burton, about eight o’clock, 
“would you try again to see Mr. Smith? Bobby 
can’t go to sleep for thinking about the policeman.” 

“His housekeeper assured me he would not be 
back before eight,” Mr. Burton replied. “Poor 
little chap! Won’t anything else satisfy him that 
he is safe — that no policeman is coming here?” 

Mrs. Burton shook her head. “I could kill that 
abominable old wretch,” she said fiercely. 

“I’ll come up and see Bobby.” 

“No, no. You must stay downstairs. He thinks 
you are staying down here — in case anyone comes 
to the door. You’ll go as soon as possible, dear?” 

“In five minutes, Ethel. I say, try to explain to 
Bobby that all the policeman would want would be 
five shillings.” 

Mrs. Burton flew upstairs to her son. To her 
surprise and infinite relief he accepted the idea of a 
fine in place of imprisonment. 

“You see, Bobby, if it had been a stone, it would 
have been much more serious. But for kindly 
throwing an orange — especially a good one with 


128 


Bobby 


sugar in it, like yours — you only pay some pennies, 
and then it’s all settled. You see?” 

‘'Where’s my bank?” 

Like a wise mother Mrs. Burton fetched his 
money-box at once, and solemnly received nearly all 
its small change from his hand. 

"I wish I had known that before,” said Bobby, 
yawning and laying his head on the pillow. “I don’t 
care if I’m ruined.” 

Presently she whispered : 

‘'Say your prayers now, dearie.” 

“Yes. ... I think I’ll pray for the policeman 
instead of Mr. Roly Smith.” 

“Mr. Roly Smith, too,” she gently urged. “For 
he didn’t understand.” 

Bobby sighed. “Very well,” he said in a tone of 
resignation. And this was how the prayer ended. 
"... The policeman, and everybody in the world, 
and Mr. Roly Smith — if You feel inclined.” 

He was falling asleep when his father came into 
the room, somewhat noisily and excitedly. 

Mrs. Burton raised her hand in warning. 

“But I say, Ethel, you must look at this!” He 
held out a box containing a dozen magnificent 
peaches. 

“Oh, goodness me!” she exclaimed. 

‘'Oh, goodness me, too!” cried Bobby, sitting 
up and blinking. 


Refreshing Fruits 129 

‘listen !” said Mr. Burton, and read from a card : 
“Mr. T./ Roland Smith, fearing he was hasty this 
afternoon, begs to offer Master Burton his apologies 
and the few peaches sent herewith.’’ 

“For me!” shrieked Bobby. 

“For you, my son,” said his father, placing the 
box in the outstretched arms. 

“Oh, ' Bobby dear, not to-night I” begged his 
mother. “It’s far too late for peaches.” 

“Just one, mother.” 

“But wouldn’t it be a shame,” Mrs. Burton ar- 
gued feebly, “to break the beautiful dozen?” 

“Daddy will lend me his tobacco pouch — won’t 
you, daddy? ’Sides, you may both have one each.” 
He helped himself. 

“And how many will that leave?” said Mr. Bur- 
ton, smiling and delivering up his pouch. 

“Ten,” said Bobby, handing a peach to his mother 
and returning the pouch to his father. 

Mr. Burton affected to weep, whereupon his son 
presented him also with a “really and truly” peach, 
remarking : “There’ll be only eight now.” 

“Nine, dear,” Mrs. Burton corrected tenderly. 

“No, just eight,” said Bobby, helping himself 
to a second. “For the morning,” he explained. 

***** 

He had been tucked in for positively the last time. 


130 Bobby 

and Mrs. Burton, deeming him asleep, was stealing 
from the room. 

‘‘Mother.” 

“Bobby, you really must go to sleep now. It’s 
frightfully late!” 

‘ ‘ Y es — ^but — mother. ’ ’ 

“What is it, dear?” 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to say my prayers all over 
again.” 


CHAPTER NINE 


THE HYMN 


It was a Monday morning, and the Burton house- 
hold, including the maid, had “slept in.” 

“Bobby!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, whose temper 
as a consequence of a too hurried toilet was 
slightly on edge : “is that all the length you have 
got?” 

Bobby, having inserted his right foot in the left 
leg of his combinations and his left arm in the right 
sleeve thereof, had become generally involved in 
the garment, and now, at his mother’s question, 
plumped heavily on the hearthrug, saying : 

“Those combies are simply ’bomnible, and I hate 
them 1” 

“How dare you say such a thing, Bobby? They 
are beautiful Jaeger combies, and most expensive. 
Many a poor little boy would be glad of them this 
cold weather.” 

“I wish you’d give them to a poor little boy, then. 
I don’t want them. They’re always getting mixed 
up and ” 

“That is your own stupidity. I’m sure there 
isn’t a boy at school who can’t put on his own 
131 


132 


Bobby 


combies as smartly as — as anything. Now, is 
there?’’ 

“I don’t know. We don’t talk about our combies 
at school.” 

‘‘Well ... oh, do make haste, Bobby! You’ll 
be late for school. Stand up! I’ll help you for 
this once.” 

Bobby stood up. “Thank you, mother,” he said 
in an altered voice, and sighed wistfully. 

Presently she kissed him. “There, now! You 
can manage the rest — can’t you? I must see if Jane 
is getting in the breakfast.” 

“Yes, mother, I can manage the rest.” As she 
reached the door, he added very plaintively, almost 
as if he were speaking to himself: “I don’t think 
I’m feeling very well this morning.” 

“What do you say, Bobby?” 

“I — I don’t think I’m feeling very well this 
morning. But” — in a tone of resignation — “never 
mind; it doesn’t matter.” 

She was beside him immediately. “What is the 
matter, dear? Where do you feel unwell? Do 
you feel shivery — cold? Let me see your tongue.” 

“I don’t feel shivery,” said Bobby, trying to 
speak and exhibit his tongue simultaneously. 

Mrs. Burton suddenly remembered that there 
was a case of chickenpox in the neighbourhood, and 
entered upon a frantic search for “spots.” This 


The Hymn 


133 


so alarmed Bobby that he began to protest there 
was nothing wrong with him. 

‘1 didn’t mean I was feeling ill. I just meant 
I thought I wasn’t feeling very well this morning.” 

‘‘I don’t understand you,” she returned, drawn 
between a natural impatience and her maternal anx- 
iety. ‘‘Your tongue is perfectly clean. Do you 
feel that you want to go back to bed, Bobby?” 

For a moment he hesitated. Then — ^“No,” he 
said, with a suspicion of effort. “I — I’m all right 
now, I think.” 

It was not, however, until she had seen him eat a 
hearty breakfast, and had held a consultation with 
Mr. Burton, that she let him set out for school. He 
departed looking as well as the most devoted parents 
could desire, but with less than his usual eagerness. 

Five minutes after he had gone the explanation 
came to her. 

“Oh, Jack,” she cried. “Bobby has gone to school 
without knowing his Monday morning hymn. I 
forgot all about it yesterday afternoon. No won- 
der the poor boy thought he wasn’t feeling very well 
this morning.” 

“My fault,” said Mr. Burton, forgetting to be 
cross at having lost his accustomed train to the 
City. “That long walk in the woods yesterday 
afternoon ’’ 


134 


Bobby 


''But I ought to have remembered. Oh, I do 
hope Miss Privet won’t be hard on him.” 

"Why didn’t he tell us that that was what was 
worrying him?” 

"Oh, simply because he saw we were both so 
irritable. How I hate Monday mornings!” 

"If that sleepy-headed idiot Jane ” Mr. Bur- 

ton began. 

"Jack, look at the time!” 

Meanwhile, Bobby was proceeding schoolwards 
in the company of a schoolmate, Harold Page, who 
had deigned to notice him that morning. For 
Harold was one of the senior boys at Miss Privet’s 
preparatory establishment, which was limited to 
sixteen young souls under the age of ten. Harold 
was nearly nine, and was given to addressing first 
and second year boys as "you kids.” 

Bobby was astonished, and, had he not been too 
worried, would have been extremely flattered by 
Harold’s condescension. He willingly lent his cake 
of india-rubber, which Harold had graciously de- 
sired to borrow, and at last found courage to break 
a silence with the question : 

"Can you say your hymn this morning?” 

"Rather!” 

Bobby did not grudge Harold his preparedness, 
yet the confident answer depressed him. 


The Hymn 


135 


‘Were you — were you ever not able to say it?” 
he enquired after a pause. 

‘‘Rather not! I can always say everything.” 

“I wish I was you,” said Bobby, humbly. 
“D-does she get angry if a boy can’t say the hymn?” 
His experience of Miss Privet covered but a few 
weeks. 

“Rather! Can’t you say it?” 

“I forgot to learn it.” 

“That’s worse than not being able to say it.” 

“Is it?” 

“Rather! It’s worse to be careless than stu- 
pid.” 

“Oh!” Bobby’s last hope went out. Until now 
“I forgot” had not seemed such a bad excuse. He 
was not exactly afraid of anything Miss Privet 
might do, but he dreaded the fate of looking a booby 
before the whole school. What a price to pay for 
a happy afternoon in the woods with his father, 
collecting acorns! Was it unnatural if he told him- 
self that it was “mother’s fault,” because she had 
hurried him off to bed without reminding him about 
the hymn? “It’s awful!” he said, with a sigh. 

“Rather!” Big Harold was not without feelings, 
but he was very much taken up with himself and the 
expression lately added to his vocabulary. 

They were now joined by another senior boy, and 
Bobby found himself ignored. Presently, however. 


136 


Bobby 


he perceived Leslie, one of his real friends, in front, 
and ran after him. 

Leslie while sympathetic was no more helpful 
than Harold. Like Bobby he was inexperienced. 
Also, though he had '‘learned” the hymn, he was 
by no means sure of his ability to repeat it correctly. 
He brought the little book from his bag, found the 
place, and presented it to Bobby, saying: “If you 
were to hear me, perhaps you'd learn some of the 
words yourself.” 

But just then a bell sounded and they had to 

run. . . . 

That morning Miss Privet looked more severe 
than usual. (As a matter of fact, she, too, had 
“slept in.”) Lessons on Mondays always began 
with a hymn. Miss Privet was particular about the 
hymn, though it was not a subject for which her 
pupils might gain marks or change places. More- 
over, she observed no method in calling upon the 
boys ; consequently no boy, excepting the last, could 
foretell when his turn would come. 

Bobby, who had squeezed himself into the middle 
of the rear row, endeavoured to make himself look 
as small as possible. LFn fortunately Miss Privet 
called the roll as usual. 

“Robert Burton,” she said, for the third time. 

“Absent,” said Bobby, in the squeak of a 
mouse. 


The Hymn 


137 


Miss Privet looked over her glasses. '^Burton, 
what do you mean by answering ‘absent’ ? ” 

“I meant to say ‘present,’ ” he replied, truthfully 
enough. Several boys sniggered. 

“Why did you not answer promptly?” 

“Promptly,” said Bobby, wonderingly. 

Miss Privet perceived that he was nervous. “I 
wanted you,” she said patiently, “to say ‘present’ 
promptly.” 

“Present promptly.” 

There was more sniggering, and one of the 
seniors exploded. 

“Silence!” Miss Privet rapped the table with 
her wand of authority, a green pencil a yard long, 
at once the dread and envy of the smallest pupils. 
“Any boy who cannot repeat the hymn this morning 
shall stand in the corner for fifteen minutes — no 
matter how old he is! Now you have just one 
minute to refresh your memories. Burton — stop! 
where are you going ?” She had been about to sum- 
mon him to her desk, but he had already risen. 
“Where are you going?” 

Bobby was unable to speak. The horror of dis- 
grace was upon him. He pointed to the corner 
wherein he had witnessed the penance of others, 
hoping that he might never have to look so silly. 

“Eyes on books!” Miss Privet commanded the 
gaping pupils. “Burton, come here.” 


138 


Bobby 


Bobby, doing his best to keep a stiff upper lip, 
went forward to the desk. 

*‘Why were you going to the corner?” she asked. 
And her voice was sO' unexpectedly soft that Bobby 
lost control and gave a little gulp. 

'‘You said ” he began, and stuck. 

“But how do you know you can’t repeat the 
hymn ?” she enquired in an undertone. 

“ ’Cause I didn’t learn it,” he replied with an effort. 

“M’m. . . . Why didn’t you learn it ?” 

“I forgot.” 

“That was very careless of you, Burton. Did not 
father or mother remind you yesterday?” 

Bobby hesitated. Whatever happened, he was 
not going to get his parents into trouble. “It was 
my own fault,” he stammered. “I expect I made 
them forget, too, ’cause I kept them so busy gather- 
ing acorns in the wood. I — I’ll give you some of 
my acorns. Miss ” 

She compressed her lips for an instant. “Do you 
think acorns would make up for it ?” she said gently. 

“I could give you heaps !” 

She shook her head. “You see. Burton, you have 
disappointed me.” 

He had not thought of it that way. His coun- 
tenance, which had cleared somewhat, became over- 
cast again. “I — I’m awful sorry,” he whispered, 
“and I’m awful mis’rable.” 


The Hymn 139 

‘‘If I excuse you this time/’ she said, after a 
pause, “will you promise faithfully not to forget 
your hymn next Sunday?” 

The relief was so great that Bobby could only 
give an emphatic nod. 

She drew back a little, for he was quite evidently 
about to kiss her, and such an act would never have 
done — from the disciplinarian point of view, at any 
rate. “Go and sit down,” she commanded quietly, 
giving him a little touch on the shoulder which set 
everything right, so far as Bobby was concerned. 

During the interval he was besieged with enquir- 
ies as to his good fortune. 

“I just told her,” he replied — rather cockily, it 
must be confessed — “that I had forgotten to learn 
it. And she ’sensed me. . . . Leslie, what have 
you done with my bit of string?” 

He did not see his mother until the evening, 
when, after a day’s shopping in the city, she came 
home with her husband. 

“Bobby,” said Mr. Burton, as he hung up his coat, 
“your mother and I have been worrying a great 
deal about you. Could you say your hymn this 
morning?” 

“No, daddy,” was the cheerful reply, “but I can 
tie a sailor’s knot.” 

About the same hour. Miss Privet’s maid, in a 
high state of indignation, informed her mistress that 


140 


Bobby 


the letter-box had been almost filled with acorns, 
and was extremely annoyed because her mistress 
wasn’t. 

And on the following Monday morning the 
schoolroom hadn’t enough corners for the little boys 
who had forgotten” to learn the hymn. 


CHAPTER TEN 


‘‘SWANGAJEW’^ 


Rather suddenly Bobby had developed an appe- 
tite for the printed page. His parents were at 
once gratified that his mental powers should have 
asserted themselves in that particular direction, 
anxious lest he should overtax them. At the same 
time, the season being winter at its worst, they 
sought to reassure each other with remarks to the 
effect that he was not missing much in the way of 
open-air exercise, and that his reading had nothing 
whatever to do with his school work. The latter 
remark was Mr. Burton’s, and Mrs. Burton tried 
hard to feel that it was a sensible one in view of the 
fact that Miss Privet had found her son by no means 
an ardent student. 

‘‘His brain is all right,” said Mr. Burton one 
Sunday evening. “I learned to read myself in ex- 
actly the same way. I could read long before I 
could spell.” 

“Could you? But you couldn’t understand all 
the big words. Jack.” 

“Possibly not. But I got the hang of them; and 
that’s what Bobby is doing. Certainly I knew the 


142 


Bobby 


meanings of many big words before I could pro- 
nounce them/^ 

‘‘Isn’t every child like that?” said Mrs. Burton, 
meaning no offence. “Bobby often asks me the mean- 
ing of words which he can pronounce quite correctly. 
Of course, sometimes he makes funny mistakes ” 

“Every child does that,” he returned, the least 
thing pettishly. “What else do you expect?” 

“Nothing else, of course,’" she replied mildly. 
“Isn’t it nice that he is beginning to like the ‘Bible 
Stories’ he got from mother? — though I do think 
some of the words might have been smaller — don’t 
you. Jack?” 

“I can’t say that I’m a great believer in boiling 
down everything for children — especially when 
someone is always at hand to explain. Look how 
he has worried through ‘The Swiss Family’ ” 

“Yes; and when he first got it he wished it was 
a Swiss tart. Now he is reading it for the third or 
fourth time, and knows heaps of it by heart. And 
there’s one thing about Bobby’s reading,’" she went 
on, “though it’s selfish to think of it in that way: 
it does give one a little rest and peace, now and then, 
doesn’t it. Jack?” 

“It does,” Mr. Burton agreed, smiling. Then he 
yawned. “All the same, Ethel, I’m confoundedly 
sleepy to-night. I vote for early to bed.” 

“So do I. To-morrow’s Monday,” said Ethel. 


''Swangajew'* 143 

Just then a bell rang. *'0h, goodness, who can that 
be?’^ 

‘‘If it’s that boring idiot, Browning ” began 

Mr. Burton. 

It was — and he stayed till midnight. 

* * * 4: 

It was a bleak and bitter Monday morning. 

Out of the silence rose a small voice : 

“Mother!” 

Through the door ajar it passed into the “big” 
bedroom adjoining. But there was no response. 

“Mother!” . . . 

Still no response. 

“Daddy !” The voice was not so small now, yet 
the slumberers heard it not. 

“Daddy! . . . M other T 

Success at last ! 

“Oh! ... Is that you, Bobby?” cried Mrs. Bur- 
ton with a start. 

“Oh Lord, what the mischief” — Mr. Burton’s 
exclamation died away in a grunt. 

“You sleep awful sound, you two,” remarked 
Bobby in a tone of voice which assured his mother 
that he was not in pain. Nevertheless, she put the 
question, drowsily: “What’s the matter, dear?” 

“Nothing. . . . But ” 

“Are you feeling quite well ?” 

“Quite well, thank you.” 


144 


Bobby 


Here Mr. Burton said, with a groan: “Surely 
to goodness it isn’t time to get up.” 

“What time is it, Jack? Jane must have slept 
in again.” 

“It’s too beastly cold for anything,” said Mr. 
Burton, fumbling for matches on the table by the 
bedside. He found the box at last, and tipped it 
over to the floor. “Conf ” 

Very obligingly the old clock on the landing 
wheezed itself into striking position and declaimed 
five. 

“Great Caesar’s ghost!” ejaculated Mr. Burton, 
falling back on his pillow and drawing up the 
clothes to his chin. “What on earth do you mean, 
Bobby, by ” 

“Don’t be cross with him. Jack,” his wife mur- 
mured. “Come, Bobby, tell us what you want. 
Are you feeling cold?” 

“No. I just want to know ” 

“Oh, get to sleep, old man,” said his father, striv- 
ing to be good-humoured. “It’s far too early to 
know anything.” 

“I can’t sleep till I know, daddy.” 

“Know what?” 

“What 'swangajew’ means?” 

“What?” 

“Swangajew.” 


''Swangajew'* 145 

too early for riddles, my son,’’ said Mr. 
Burton, restraining himself. ‘‘Go to sleep.” 

“ ’Tisn’t a riddle,” Bobby rejoined, indignantly. 
“It’s a word.” 

“What did you say the word was, dearie?” his 
mother sweetly enquired. 

“Swangajew.” 

“I’m sure I never heard such a thing. Did you, 
Jack?” 

“No.” 

“Where did you hear it, Bobby? Not in the 
street, I hope,” said Mrs. Burton with misgiv- 
ings. 

“I didn’t hear it. I ” 

“Dreamed it,” interrupted Mr. Burton. “Well, 
go to sleep and dream of something easier.” He 
pulled the clothes over his head. 

“I read it,” declared Bobby, “in my ‘Bible 
Stories.’ ” 

“Jack,” cried Mrs. Burton, “he says he read it 
in his ‘Bible Stories’ ! What did you say the word 
was, Bobby?” 

“Swangajew !” Bobby’s voice sounded as though 
he were beginning to lose patience. 

“What sort of Jew?” 

“Swangajew. It was only one word.” 

“Swangajew,” muttered Mrs. Burton, sighing. 
“Swangajew. . . . Swang ” 


146 Bobby 

‘‘Look here, Ethel,” a muffled voice interposed, 
“I’ve got to catch the eight-fifty-nine train. Bobby, 
go to sleep at once. The word you mention is prob- 
ably a misprint ” 

“Oh, Jack,” Mrs. Burton remonstrated, “I’m sure 
mother would never give him a book with a mis- 
print in it. Can’t you think of some meaning? You 
know there are such funny — I mean to say peculiar 
— words in the Bible. What did you say the word 
was, Bobby ?” 

“You’re awful forget fulish,” said Bobby. “It’s 
swang ” 

“Now, Bobby,” said the muffled voice, “if you 
don’t keep quiet and go to sleep ” 

“I can't sleep till I know what it means.” 

“Well, kindly allow iis to go to sleep.” 

“I — I thought you knew everything, daddy.” 

Mr. Burton winced below the blankets. 

“Can’t you make up something?” his wife sug- 
gested in a whisper. 

“And get found out afterwards !” 

“I don’t care!” she said desperately, under her 
breath. Then aloud : “Bobby, dear, you know 
what a Jew is — don’t you?” 

“Yes; it’s the same as good-bye.” 

“No, no! It’s ” 

know! — it’s a sort of rain that you can’t see 
falling ” 


''Swangajew'' 


147 


“No, dear. You’re thinking of adieu and 
dew ” 

“And I,” snapped Mr. Burton, “am thinking of a 
train which will soon be due ; and the deuce 
knows ” 

“Hush, Jack! Well then, Bobby, a Jew is a 
person, and I fancy a ^slangajew’ is a special sort 
of Jew, and — and I expect daddy will tell you all 
about it to-morrow. Now we’ll all take a tiny nap, 
and ” 

“But, mother, it’s not a slangdijew; it’s a swanga,- 
jew ” 

“Of course, dear. I’ll remember in future. A 
swangajew,” she repeated, her eyes closing. 

“And, besides, it can't be a sort of person, ’cause 
it’s a thing that people can get inside of.” 

“Hooray!” muttered Mr. Burton. 

“How do you know people can get inside it?” 
Mrs. Burton demanded with unwonted sharpness. 

“The book says so.” 

“What does the book say?” 

“You needn’t be so cross, mother.” 

“How dare you say I’m cross? . . . What does 
the book say?” 

“Go it, Ethel! You’re getting on splendidly!” 
came an ironic whisper from under the clothes. 

“I can’t remember,” said Bobby. “Can’t remem- 
ber nothing ’cept that it was a ‘swangajew,’ and 


148 


Bobby 


people could go inside it. You see, you stopped me 
reading just when ’’ 

‘‘You must have^ — er — mixed it up with some- 
thing else,” his mother said feebly. “There’s no 
such word in the dictionary. Is there, Jack?” 

“Don’t happen to know quite all the words in the 
dictionary.” 

“It’s in my ‘Bible Stories,’ anyway,” said Bobby. 
“I thought daddy would have known about it.” 

Mr. Burton put out his nose. “Can’t you spell 
it?” 

“No; it’s a fearfully long word. I can spell ‘pig’ 
and ‘face’ and ‘aunt’ and heaps of ” 

“Never mind about spelling them just now. I’m 
going to settle the matter once and for all.” With 
these words Mr. Burton heaved himself up and got 
out of bed. His heel came down on the match- 
box which, being a large one, made a considerable 
crackle. 

“Great Caesar’s ghost!” Bobby exclaimed. 

“What a mercy we use safety matches,” Mrs. 
Burton remarked after she had reprimanded her 
son. “What are you doing, Jack?” 

“Nothing,” replied her husband, feeling about in 
the darkness and stubbing his toe on the bedpost. 

“Hush, Jack I” A minute later — “Where are you 
going?” she enquired. 

“Never mind 1” 


”Swangajew'' 149 

Presently they heard him moving about down- 
stairs, opening and shutting drawers and cupboards, 
and sneezing at intervals. Mrs. Burton sighed 
wearily and Bobby yawned audibly. 

At the end of seven minutes Mr. Burton came 
back, carrying a lighted taper. 

‘‘Bobby! where on earth is your conf — your 
‘Bible Stories’?” 

There was no immediate reply. 

“Don’t waken him. Jack,” Mrs. Burton mur- 
mured. “Are you cold?” 

“Bah 1” grunted Mr. Burton, and kicked a slipper 
into the fender, upsetting the tongs. 

“What is it?” asked Bobby, drowsily. 

“Where is — are your ‘Bible Stories’ ?” 

“Under my pillow, daddy. Do you want ” 

“Really, Jack!” said Mrs. Burton in shocked 
tones. 

Mr. Burton strode into his son’s little room. 

“Give me the book ! ... Now show me the word 
— ‘whangajew,’ or whatever you call it.” 

Blinking and rubbing his eyes, Bobby turned page 
after page. 

“Jack,” said Mrs. Burton, “do get into bed. You 
know how readily you catch cold.” 

Mr. Burton set his teeth. Never had he been so 
near to requesting his best beloved to “shut up.” 
“Look sharp, Bobby,” he muttered. 


Bobby 


1 50 

‘‘You see, mother wouldn't let me turn down 
the page, and I forgot to put in a mark. . . . 
Oh, here it is — swangajew!” the boy cried tri- 
umphantly. 

“Where?" 

“There!" 

Mr. Burton brought the light closer to the page. 
A time was to come when he would laugh heartily 
at the whole episode and gleefully relate it to his 
friends; but now he just managed to keep his tem- 
per, and barely refrained from casting the little 
volume across the room. Dropping it on the bed, 
he retired to the adjoining apartment and blew out 
the taper. 

“The word," he said very deliberately, “is synor 
goguef* 

“Oh, is that what you call it?" Bobby returned 
contentedly, and snuggled into his nest. “I think 
I like swangajew best." 


CHAPTER ELEVEN SISTERS 


Bobby and his friend Leslie were on their way 
home from school, and Leslie was saying: 

‘‘But why can't you come to play in our garden 
this afternoon?" 

“Aunt Hilda is coming. . . . Ghastly nuisance." 
Bobby was merely echoing a remark of his father’s, 
uttered the other morning on receipt of an invita- 
tion to a “progressive" party. 

“Is she a rotter?" inquired Leslie, sympathetic- 
ally. 

“No, she’s not half bad; she’s rather decent. But 
I don’t see the use of sticking in the house because 
she’s coming — ’cept that there are cakes with pink 
icing for tea." 

“I shouldn’t mine having a pink cake," said Les- 
lie; “but I don’t like ladies — do you?" 

“Not much — ’cept mother, of course," said 
Bobby, who was still young enough to have thoughts 
of his parents at most hours of the day. 

“That’s different," Leslie admitted. “But I always 
forget mother’s a lady. I don’t like girls much, 
either — not for playing with, anyway. Do you?" 
151 


152 


Bobby 


‘^Not unless they do what I tell them to do — and 
then often they don’t understand. I like playing 
with boys far the best.” 

“Same here.” Leslie suddenly sighed. “You’re 
jolly lucky having no sisters,” he said. 

“Why?” Bobby was not a little astonished. He 
had always found Leslie’s sisters rather “nice,” ex- 
cepting, perhaps, the youngest, who “made a fear- 
ful noise for her size” and took a mad delight in de- 
stroying the handiworks of Leslie and himself. 

“They take up the whole nursery on wet days, 
and a fellow can’t get room to play. And, if they’re 
nasty, a fellow can’t hit them — not often, anyway.” 

“Only a coward would hit a girl,” said Bobby, 
again quoting his parent. 

“I don’t know about that. ’Tisn’t so bad if she’s 
bigger — sometimes. Billy Griffin used to kick his 
mother — ^but that was beastly, I think. That was 
why Billy got a governess.” 

“Did he kick her, too ?” 

“I suppose so; but of course it wasn’t the same 
as kicking his mother. Was it?” 

“No. And it wouldn’t be so bad if he had only 
his slippers on,” said Bobby, who was disposed to 
like Billy Griffin despite an uncertain temper. “But 
only a coward would hit a girl — a small girl,” he 
insisted. “Daddy says so.” 

Leslie hesitated ere he rejoined : “I — I wouldn’t 


Sisters 


153 


call a fellow a coward if he hit a girl kid for — for 
biting his nose. Would you 

Bobby looked as he felt, at a loss, and his friend 
went on : ‘‘It was ever so long ago. Last year it 
was. And it was my birthday, and I had got a 
splendid squirt — a great fat one 

“Was that .all you got?’^ 

“ ’Course not, silly ! But I liked it best of all my 
presents. And because I wouldn’t give it to her — 
I mean Eva — she bit my nose ” 

“Did it hurt?” 

“You bet! I couldn’t help hitting her. I hit 
her pretty hard, too. She blubbed for about half 
an hour.” There may have been a trace of satis- 
faction in Leslie’s voice. 

“Did you blub?” 

“I should think not! But she bit so hard that 
she squeezed some tear- juice into my eyes. I could 
hardly see to hit her.” 

After a slight pause — “I expect you were sorry 
you hit her, afterwards,” ventured Bobby. 

“Yes, I was — ^but it was a good long time after- 
wards. You see, I didn’t want to hit her, but I 
simply had to do it.” 

“I see,” said Bobby absently. He was eyeing* his 
friend’s nasal organ. “I wonder what it tasted 
like,” he said softly. 

“What? Oh, you mean my nose. I don’t 


154 


Bobby 


suppose it tasted like anything. She didn’t bite 
through it, you know.” 

looks as if she had.” 

‘^No,” said Leslie, not in the least offended, 
'‘my nose was always like that. Mother’s is almost 
the same — it has got a sort of crick in it. Father’s 
is quite different: it’s long and sharp. You should 
hear him blow it. By Jove, he can make a row! 
Mother can only make a squeak.” 

"I don’t believe he can blow louder than my 
father can,” said Bobby. “The gas in the bed- 
room jumps when he blows.” 

Leslie had a healthy horror of being beaten at 
anything. After a moment’s reflection he said very 
impressively: “Once when my father blew his nose 
in the bedroom, the gas went right out!” He 
glanced at his friend’s countenance only to read 
frank scepticism written there; so he hastily 
compromised : “But it came in again immediately.” 

Bobby shook his head and gazed straight in front. 

“Don’t you believe it?” demanded the other, 
much chagrined by the miserable response to his 
supreme effort. 

“Perhaps,” Bobby remarked charitably, “you shut 
your eyes just when he blew.” 

“No, I didn’t! They were as wide as wide!” 

Followed a strained silence. 

“Perhaps,” said Bobby, with an inspiration, 


Sisters 


155 


^^there happened to be something wrong at the gas- 
works/^ 

Leslie thought hard for a moment, then realized, 
apparently, that his case was hopeless. ‘‘Well, 
perhaps,'’ he reluctantly allowed. “But I’ll bet you 
anything my father can blow louder than yours.” 

“Wait till you hear mine blow.” 

“Wait till you hear mineT 

“I expect it would be simply hid jus,” said Bobby, 
nettled at last. 

“I’ll hidjus you!” cried Leslie, flaring up. He 
dropped his school-bag, spat on his hands as he had 
once seen a message boy do, and clenched his fists. 
Then he suddenly recollected that at their last little 
fight, a week ago, he had got much the worst of it. 
“Anyway, my father can lick yours at golf,” he 
said with confusion of countenance, and stooped to 
recover his bag. 

“Your father is ever so much older than mine,” 
returned Bobby, hardly refraining from kicking the 
other’s property. 

“It’s better to be older.” 

“And he’s too fat.” 

“He isn’t!” 

“If he tried to play tennis like my dad, he’d 
simply burst.” 

“He wouldn’t!” 

“With a bang!” 


156 Bobby 

“He wouldn't!” 

“Well, why doesn't he ever play tennis?" 

“B — — because " Leslie stuck fast. 

“ 'Cause what 5 " 

Things looked blacker than ever, but fortunately, 
since Leslie could not think of a good reply and 
as Bobby did not force his small advantage, the 
quarrel merely petered out. Within a couple of 
minutes they were on fairly amicable terms again. 
Bobby, for no reason that can be given, reverted to 
the subject of their earlier conversation. 

“Did your other sisters ever bite you ?" he pleas- 
antly inquired. 

“No,” answered Leslie, with equal mildness, 
“but Doris used to scratch horribly. She once 
nearly scratched my eyes out. If I hadn't turned 
my back quickly, they would have been out on the 
floor.” 

“Did you hit her?” asked Bobby, with a disap- 
pointing show of concern for his companion’s nar- 
row escape. 

“The nurse wouldn't let me. But I nearly broke 
her doll’s neck, and she howled!” 

“The doll?” 

“No, Doris. Another time she scratched my 
knee with a slate pencil. It bled like anything — 
gushed !” 

“Did it ? What did you do to her ?” 


Sisters 


157 

‘‘Nothing. Mother had promised me a sixpence 
if I didn’t make Doris cry for a week, and the week 
was finished all but two days.” 

“Did you get the sixpence, Leslie?” said Bobby, 
much interested and wondering whether sisters 
might not be of some value after all. 

“Yes, I got it. And then Doris screeched be^ 
cause she didn’t get one too. Mother made me give 
her tuppence for not having made me make her 
cry that week. Rotten, wasn’t it?” 

“Ghastly nuisance,” his friend commented. 

“Yes, it was a ghastly nuisance,” agreed Leslie, 
(Later he introduced the taking phrase to his 
parent. ) 

“Did Hilda, your big sister, ever bite or scratch?” 
Bobby pursued, presently. 

“No; she used to slap — she does it yet, but not 
often, because she remembers I can pull her pig- 
tail till her nose turns up — and it’s one something 
like father’s, but not quite so long.” 

“Does her nose really turn up?” 

“Like that,” said Leslie, pushing up the point 
of his own. “She hates it.” 

Bobby’s expression was one of dubiety. “You 
must pull awful hard,” he observed. 

“I do! She squeals and makes faces.” 

There was a short silence between them until 


158 Bobby 

Bobby, having decided to let the nose question drop, 
said slowly: 

“I didn’t know it was so horrid having sisters.” 

Possibly Leslie felt he had gone too far in his 
revelations of nursery woes. ‘‘Oh, but it isn’t 
always horrid,” he hastened to say, adding gener- 
ously: “Sometimes it’s quite decent having them. 
’Specially at Christmas and — and other times. I 
expect I shall hate it when they get married. (Eva 
was three and a half.) I hated it when Hilda was 
away for a month last summer, and when Doris and 
Eva had mumps. But sometimes they are a — a 
ghastly nuisance.” 

Bobby could not have told why, but he was feel- 
ing rather depressed when they reached his gate. 

“If you can’t come to our house,” said Leslie, 
“I wish you’d ask me to play with you in yours.” 

“I wish I could,” Bobby returned. “But I 
promised not to have anybody in to-day, ’cause 
mother’s in bed, and Aunt Hilda is coming at four 
o’clock. I think she’s coming to stay.” 

“Is your mother ill?” 

“No, she’s not ill, I don’t think. But I’m not 
allowed to make a row. Perhaps she’ll let me ask 
you to-morrow, Leslie.” 

“All right. So long,” said Leslie, and trotted off. 
“I say,” he shouted over his shoulder, “you needn’t 
tell my sisters what I told you.” 


Sisters 


159 

Bobby nodded and passed, in profound thought, 
to the house. 

On the step he met Dr. Simson. 

‘‘Well, young man,’’ said that jocular person, 
who seemed to be in a great hurry. “I’m afraid 
your nose is going to be put out of joint presently.” 

Bobby stared, put his hand to the member men- 
tioned, then started to hear his father’s voice. 

“ ’Sh ! Come in very quietly, Bobby,” said Mr. 
Burton, holding open the door. 

Bobby thought his father looked “sort of 
strange,” but he said nothing as he accompanied 
him, copying his tip-toe walk, to the sitting-room. 
There Mr. Burton, looking stranger than ever, in- 
formed Bobby that a dear little sister had arrived 
from Heaven per good Dr. Simson. 

“Aren’t you glad, Bobby, old man?” Mr. 
Burton asked after a pause. 

“Are you?” 

“Tremendously I” 

“Oh. . . . Then I expect I’m glad too. ... Is 
mother?” 

A little later Mr. Burton said: “Why, Bobby, 
have you hurt your nose ?” 

“Oh, no, father,” the boy replied, dropping his 
hand sharply. “Not yet.” Which was all he would 
say on the subject, though he referred to it in in- 
direct fashion three days later. 


i6o Bobby 


He was being permitted to see his little sister 
for the first time. 

“I suppose she is quite sure to get them?’^ he 
asked the nurse in a whisper of resignation. 

‘‘Get what, dearie?’^ 

“Teeth.” 


9 





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